


The Case of the Black Arrow

by TheDoubleExposure



Series: The Black Arrow [1]
Category: Basil of Baker Street - All Media Types, Disney - All Media Types, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Great Mouse Detective (1986)
Genre: A lot of very serious topics are mentioned but not outright depicted, Attempted Murder, Case Fic, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug trafficking, Gen, Incest, Murder, Sex Trafficking, Topics include, drug mules, please tread with caution if you are triggered by any of these things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-06-09 11:23:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6903877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDoubleExposure/pseuds/TheDoubleExposure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after Ratigan’s demise, and Basil is in a rut. Finding missing people and lost items are not nearly challenging enough for London’s only private consulting mouse detective. That is, until a mysterious vigilante solves Basil’s latest case before he does. Now Basil of Baker Street is determined to catch the rogue crime fighter and discover their real identity. But things are rarely that straightforward, as Basil and Dawson will soon learn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Of all the cases Basil of Baker Street and I worked on together, none affected both of us as much as one that began on a chilly spring evening in late May of 1899. Basil and I had been assisting Scotland Yard in apprehending members of a smuggling ring who had been bringing in low-grade, unregulated opium into the city. Through our combined efforts, we had determined who was in charge, where their source of the opium came from, to whom they were distributing their product, and when each shipment came into port. We knew nearly everything except how they were moving their goods from the ships and onto the streets. More than once, Inspector Pine of Scotland Yard had tried raiding a shipment, but, to the police’s embarrassment (and Basil’s, who had consulted Pine on when to make his move on the smugglers), no opium was found, and questioning the passengers and crew yielded nothing. Pine nearly had us taken off the case in his outrage, but as it usually does, my friend’s intellect and skills in deduction proved too invaluable for the Yard to cut him loose in this instance.

 

I find it worth mentioning that with the anniversary of our first case together, and subsequently, Professor Ratigan’s downfall, looming in the coming month, Basil’s mood swings were becoming more erratic. I had known the detective for two years at this point, and I was no stranger to how quickly he could switch from energetic and restless to deeply melancholy. However, if the previous year was anything to go by, this time of year made his moods more extreme and his eccentricities more augmented. He has never spoken to me about it, and I have never asked, but I think, in his own way, Basil missed Professor Ratigan. Or, perhaps, he didn’t miss the villain as much as he missed the pursuit. I know that I am not lacking in mental faculties. I would never have been able to become a doctor if I did, and Basil would never suffer my presence if I were a fool. But I do consider myself self-aware enough to realize that I do not operate at the same level as my friend does. Ratigan, I believe, is the only person who could match Basil, both in genius and temperament, evil as he was, and his demise left something of a hole in Basil’s life. Since that fateful case that brought us together as colleagues and friends, he had been growing more and more restless and agitated, lamenting that cases of missing objects that were the usual fare in our line of work were not up to snuff with his skills, and I couldn’t help but agree.

 

And so that brings us back to the smuggling ring. At first, Basil didn’t want to take the case. There is some bad blood between him and Inspector Pine that he did not want to put up with, but when Pine went over the details, it sparked both Basil’s and my interest, so we accepted. Progress was made quickly thanks to Basil. After the failed shipment raids, however, everything stuttered to a halt. So there we were, sitting in our armchairs in front of the fire in our flat, Basil playing a depressing dirge of a piece on his recently replaced violin, and I was reading the _London Mouse_ in an attempt to tune out Basil’s violin playing. Our day had been spent puzzling over the smugglers, and Basil had worked himself into a frustrated frenzy, pacing all over the house for so long Mrs. Judson scolded him quite harshly that he was going to wear out the wood floor. In retaliation, he grabbed his instrument of choice and slumped in his chair, and had not stopped playing since.

 

It was a small miracle when a knock came at the door. I eagerly stood to go see who it was, grateful for a distraction from Basil’s grim melody. My relief quickly abated when I opened the door to see that it was none other than Inspector Pine standing on the other side. He was a stocky mouse of average height, with white fur and cold, grey eyes that contrasted starkly with his black police uniform.

 

“Oh, it’s you, Pine,” said Basil flatly as he came up behind me. I could sense his mood becoming fouler by the moment. “Considering the hour, I thought it was someone important”.

 

“Good evening to you too, Detective, Doctor,” Pine responded, seemingly oblivious to Basil’s insult. The inspector actually seemed quite chipper, almost giddy. “May I come in?” he asked.

 

I moved aside to let him in, “Of course. Would you like some tea? I could have our landlady put the kettle on”.

 

Pine waved a dismissive hand, “No need. I can’t imagine I’ll be staying long,” he sauntered over to Basil’s workspace, eyeing up the scientific bric-a-brac strewn about the table.

 

“Have there been any breakthroughs in the case, Detective?” he asked Basil. There was a smug tone to his voice, as if he knew something we didn’t. “You and your associate have been working on it for a long time now”.

 

Basil frowned at Pine, “Not yet, Inspector. You know as well as I do that these things take time. Well, less time for me than you. But rest assured! Dawson and I will solve the case before you know it!”

 

Pine smiled in earnest then, but it was condescending and not at all friendly, “Well, it seems someone else has taken that honor from you”.

 

There was a beat of stunned silence. “I beg your pardon?” I asked in confusion.

 

Turning around to face us, Pine clarified, “That’s why I’m here, to tell you that the case has been solved. Quite the interesting business it was, too”.

 

I glanced at Basil to see if he had any idea what the deuce Inspector Pine was on about, but my friend looked quite thoroughly dumbfounded.

 

“You solved the case?” he asked like Pine was playing a great joke on him.

 

The inspector shrugged, “I didn’t, no. Like I said, the circumstances are very interesting”.

 

“Are you going to elaborate, or are you just going to stand there looking smug?” asked Basil irritably.

 

“I plan on doing both, actually. You see, we received an anonymous tip early this afternoon telling us where to find the smugglers. Something we knew already, but--”.

 

“Thanks to me,” Basil interjected.

 

“--But we knew a breakthrough was happening when the tip came with this,” Pine reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small rubber balloon. Pine handed it to Basil, who held it out so that I could also inspect it. I couldn’t discern anything forthcoming, but I could see the wheels turning in Basil’s head.

 

“Clever, if unpalatable,” he mused.

 

“What is it Basil?” I asked, wondering what he had seen, but I had not.

 

He stretched open the neck of the balloon, “Take a look inside, Dawson,” I put my glasses on to do as Basil asked, and was taken aback by what I saw.

 

“Opium,” I gasped at the black residue inside. “They were storing it in balloons? But how did no one notice balloons full of narcotics during the shipment raids?”

 

“I can answer that,” Pine cut in before Basil could answer, “the smugglers got their cargo into the city by forcing ship passengers to swallow the balloons. Mostly children and young girls, people we wouldn’t be suspicious of,” Pine’s smile vanished, and his expression became more serious.

 

“How did they get the balloons back out?” I pondered aloud, though I wasn’t so sure I wanted to know the answer.

 

“I’d imagine the smugglers’ mules vomited up these packages,” mused Basil, still studying the outside of the balloon.

 

“Actually, they tied the ends with string and hid it under their tongues after swallowing,” explained Pine. “When the opium needed to be retrieved it was pulled out the same way it came in”.

 

“How barbaric,” I suddenly began to feel sick to my stomach. How anyone could do something so cruel and evil as to force children to swallow drugs was beyond me. The fact that smugglers had been caught did little to ease the suffering these children must have gone through.

 

“How did you find all this out, Pine? Where did the anonymous tip come from?” asked Basil. I could tell by his tone that he was growing irritated, most likely because he had failed to find the information out himself.

 

“It was left at the front desk down at headquarters,” Pine replied.

 

“By whom?”

 

“We don’t know. No one saw him come in or leave”.

 

Basil tsked “And how did _that_ happen?”

 

“Do you know Constable Rivers?”

 

“The water shrew?”

 

Pine nodded, “The very same. He was on desk duty today. He left briefly to go relieve himself, and when he came back, there was a note with the anonymous tip and the balloon. Can’t be too mad at Rivers, though. Our good samaritan led us to some fairly damning evidence”.

 

“What do you mean?” Basil’s curiosity had once again been piqued.

 

“Would you like to see? That’s also why I came here, Detective. There’s a lot of evidence to sort through, and we need someone clever to question the prisoners we have in lockup. Speaking of which,” the inspector turned to address me, “All of the smugglers we have at headquarters could use some medical attention, Doctor. Our anonymous tipper did a number on them. We could use the help documenting their injuries, if you don’t mind”.

 

“I don’t mind at all,” I assured, retrieving my medical bag from its spot next to the worktable. Being a doctor, and an army one at that, one always needs to be prepared. I put on my coat and hat, ready to accompany Inspector Pine back to Scotland Yard’s headquarters. Basil had also put on his jacket, inverness, and deerstalker hat.

 

“Very good,” Pine was waiting for us at the door, “I’ll hail us a cab”.

 

“Don’t be absurd, Pine. We can take Toby. He’s much faster than a cab. I believe Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are out now, so it shouldn’t be a problem”.

 

Pine wrinkled his nose. “Who’s Toby?”

 

“The humans’ pet dog,” I replied. “We frequently borrow him for transportation purposes”.

 

“I’m not riding a _dog_ ,” Pine spat.

 

Basil shrugged, “Then hail a cab for yourself and you can meet us. You can also explain to the superintendent why you were dawdling and arrived after we did”.

 

“I--! Oh, fine”.

 

My friend and I both chuckled at the inspector as we made our way to the hole in the wall that led upstairs.

 

* * *

  
As it turns out, getting criminals to talk about someone who single-handedly defeated them is no easy task. There were twelve men in lockup, including the leader of the smuggling ring, a lanky grey mouse named Percy Whitmore, who was in a cell by himself. Initially, Basil was worried for my safety, but everyone was in terrible shape, and in far too much pain to pose a threat to me as I examined their injuries, not to mention one of the constables was keeping guard nearby. I nearly lost track of how many cracked ribs, broken noses, and black eyes these men had between them (for posterity’s sake, it was fourteen, nine, and seven, respectively), along with other cuts, bruises, concussions, and broken bones. It was utterly shocking how one man could unleash such brutal violence on a dozen men. All the more shocking that these men were unwilling to talk about it.

 

“Really, you don’t remember anything?” Basil questioned a burly tan mouse with beady eyes in the cell next to the one I was working in. “What he looked like? What he was wearing? Anything at all?”

 

The prisoners remained silent, looking at each other nervously to see if anyone was going to talk first.

 

Basil sighed, his frustration growing, “I don’t know why you refuse to speak. This man beat you! I would think you’d like to know who he is and why he did this”.

 

“Why should we tell you?” asked Whitmore, his tone condescending “So you can shake his hand? Have Her Majesty give him a medal?”

 

“Perhaps,” Basil said, his voice equally venomous. “He certainly did the city a favor by turning you over to the police”.

 

“A man like that ain’t doing no one no favors. Look at my boys! We’re lucky to be alive!”

 

“So you’re trying to do us a favor by withholding information?”

 

Whitmore scoffed, “Not at all. If he took a crack at you, I wouldn’t cry about it. We ain’t talking ‘cause we’re already in the nick, so why should we make things easier for you?”

 

I finished my work on the last prisoner, and packed up my medical bag so I could join Basil by Whitmore’s cell.

 

Whitmore stood up from the cell cot. He was a bit wobbly due to his injuries, but still approached the bars and beckoned Basil to come closer, “I’ll tell you what, if I’m going to give you what you want, why don’t you give me a little something in return?”

 

“What did you have in mind?” asked Basil skeptically.

 

“I want immunity”.

 

“I don’t have the authority to grant that,” Basil stated.

 

Whitmore shrugged and hobbled back to his cot, “Then we’re done here”.

 

“Not so fast!” came Pine’s voice from the end of hallway, his steps brisk and sure as he strode up to Basil.

 

“What the devil are you doing, Pine?” asked Basil sharply.

 

“Throwing you a bone,” he handed Basil a small stack of papers, I assumed from the box of evidence, “I hope you don’t mind, but I started sorting the evidence without you, and some information has come to light that might make Mr. Whitmore sing like a canary”.

 

“What are you on about?” demanded Whitmore, sitting up straighter on his cot.

 

Basil quickly read over the papers Pine had given him. I watched as a grim look spread out over my friend’s face, “Children are dead because of you,” he declared.

 

Whitmore’s expression went suspiciously blank, “I never sold my stash to any kids”.

 

“Perhaps not, but you did use them as opium mules to move your product. I bet some of the balloons broke inside their stomachs, or their stomach acid wore away at the rubber. Either way, Whitmore, your mules die of an overdose and you’ve got blood on your hands”.

 

Whitmore’s eyes grew wide and I could see his skin grow pale beneath his fur, “You can’t prove nothing!” he shouted desperately.

 

“Yes, we can. Those papers Detective Basil is holding go into detail about where you dumped the bodies,” Pine sauntered up to the bars and leaned in close, “you’re for the hangman’s noose now”.

 

Whitmore gulped, the fear evident in his eyes.

 

“But,” Pine continued, “maybe if you cooperate with the good detective here, perhaps we can convince the barristers to petition for a life sentence instead of a death sentence”.

 

Taking a moment to consider the offer, Whitmore slowly collected himself and began to speak, “We were at our hideout this morning, waiting for word on a shipment that was late, when we heard some shuffling outside. Didn’t think nothing of it. Just thought Weston and Hawk were having a bit of a scuffle. But then...but then _he_ came in. Black as the devil, he was. Tall, thin, wore a hood over his head, so I couldn’t get a good look at his face, but I could see that his fur was just as black as his clothes. He was carrying a big, lead pipe in his hand. I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing. You know what he did? My boy, Jones, was closing in on him, and this bloke just wallops him in the face with the pipe hard as he can. Jones drops like a stone, and everything gets a little hazy. No one could get a good hit on this guy. Ducking and dodging and hitting us like no one’s business”.

 

“Did he say anything? Who he was? Why he was there?” prompted Basil.

 

Whitmore chuckled humorlessly, “Not a word. When we were too roughed up to move, he left as fast as he came. Not long after that, the police showed up”.

 

“Did you notice anything distinguishing about him?” I asked. Even I had to admit that I was starting to get curious about this vigilante fellow.

 

“The only thing I could _distinguish_ is his boots felt like a sledgehammer when he kicked my ribs in”.

 

“I see. Is there anything else you remember?” asked Basil, who had begun pacing around the hallway while Whitmore was telling his story.

 

“No. Now I’ve upheld my end of the bargain. You gonna make good on yours?”

 

Pine, who had been leaning on Whitmore’s cell bars, nodded, “I’ll have a word with the barristers, but it’s out of my hands after that”.

 

Whitmore gave a mirthless smirk, “Fair enough”.

 

Basil smirked right back, “Now we’re done. Come along, Dawson, Pine”.

 

I followed my friend down the hallway towards the exit with Pine trailing not too far behind us, “What do you make of it, Basil?” I asked.

 

He hummed in thought, “It’s a bit early to tell, Doctor. Eyewitness testimony isn’t the most reliable, and even with the death sentence hanging over Whitmore’s head, he could still be lying”.

 

“Then isn’t it a good thing there’s a whole box of evidence upstairs on my desk for you to look at?” sounded Pine behind us, quickening his steps to catch up to us, “Whitmore’s statement is a little disturbing though, eh?”

 

“It is,” I agreed. “It’s a wonder one person could fight twelve men at once like that”.

 

“He didn’t fight them all at once,” Pine corrected, “He took down Hawk and Weston at the front entrance, and we found two more men at the rear entrance and another one at a side door”.

 

“So that brings it down from twelve to seven, and Whitmore said this man knocked out one of his lackeys early in the encounter, so it becomes one against six. Much better odds. Our vigilante is also a strategist,” Basil mused, deep in thought.

 

“It still doesn’t make his identity any clearer,” I said.

 

“No, it doesn’t,” Basil concurred, “but there might be a clue in the evidence he left for us. Pine, lead the way, if you please”.

 

Pine pushed on ahead of us, “Gladly. The evidence is...something else. You two aren’t going to believe your eyes when you see it”.

 

Basil and I glanced at each other questioningly as we followed the inspector to the main floor.

 

* * *

  
“Whoever left this was certainly very...thorough,” I said in amazement as I looked at what was before us.

 

On the main level, Pine, Basil and I were circled around Pine’s desk, a box filled with papers and other odds and ends laid on top. The three of us had spent some time sorting the contents inside. The man who had left the anonymous tip had been keeping detailed records of who the smugglers were, the women and children employed as the mules (there were annotations for each name commenting on who was working willingly, and who was not. All of the children were unwilling), the multiple sources of the opium (we had thought there was only one), and even receipts for shipments.

 

“Indeed,” Pine agreed.

 

“What I don’t understand is how this person managed to get this evidence. Some of these records date back three months!” Basil wondered at a receipt in his hands.

 

Pine scoffed, “I think what you don’t understand is how this man managed to collect all this evidence more quickly and efficiently than you did”.

 

Basil glared at Pine, “Either way, we’ve been working on this case for nearly the same amount of time, and none of us uncovered the breadth of it all. How did one person accomplish this?”

 

“Are we so certain it was one person? I would think it would take a team to gather this amount of information,” I pointed out.

 

“We have reason to believe it was just one person,” said Pine.

 

“Based on what?” Basil questioned.

 

“This,” Pine pulled another piece of paper, this one torn around the edges, out of a drawer in his desk and handed it to Basil. He quickly skimmed what was written on it, then got the most curious look on his face as he handed me the sheet.

 

I put my reading glasses on to get a better look, and surprised to see that what was in my hand was a letter:

  


_To whom it may concern:_

 

_Enclosed in this box is a collection of evidence I have gathered in an attempt to incriminate a group of smugglers whom I have come to learn have been operating since October of last year. I have spent the better part of four months following, observing, and gathering evidence. I hope what I have to offer aids your investigation and puts these dangerous men in prison for a long time._

 

_Best of luck in your endeavors,_

 

At the bottom, instead of a signature, was a hand-drawn bow and arrow in black ink.

 

“I wonder what this means,” I said to Basil, pointing to the drawing.

 

“A substitute for our vigilante’s actual name, I should think. Most likely Archer, considering our mystery man drew the arrow drawn back in the bow, ready to shoot,” Basil surmised. He took the letter back from me to examine it again.

 

“Do you mind if I take this?” he asked Pine.

 

“I do, actually. We need to keep everything together when we give it to the barristers when the prisoners go to trial”.

 

“But if you let me run some tests, I could possibly find out so much more about our anonymous vigilante”.

 

“I don’t need to know more. Whoever this man is, he made my job a lot easier today. I think we can leave him be as a reward for his efforts,” Pine said.

 

“You can’t be serious. Don’t you want to know who this man is?”

 

“It’s not a priority at the moment”.

 

“Aren’t you going to need him to testify in court?” I asked.

 

“I doubt it. There is so much evidence here I don’t think a single person will need to take the stand”.

 

“Pine, please see reason,” Basil pleaded.

 

“No, you need to see reason. This box, this evidence, was given to the police, Detective, not you. If you wanted first crack at it, you should have stayed with the Yard instead of becoming a consulting detective”.

 

“And if you were at all good at your job, Pine, you wouldn’t have needed a mysterious vigilante to solve the case for you to begin with!” Basil was shouting by the end of his sentence, drawing the attention of the other constables and inspectors.

 

Worried that Basil and Pine would come to blows, I stepped in between them, “Now, now, you two, there’s no need to get so riled up. Come along, Basil, I think it’s time to go. Pine, would it be all right if we visited the smugglers’ hideout? Maybe there’s something there that could tell us more about the vigilante”.

 

Something seemed to fall into place in Basil’s expression, and he looked like he usually does when we get a promising lead, determined and just this side of mad. In a flash, he rushed past me towards the front door, muttering under his breath as he went.

 

When I turned back to Pine, he only looked resigned, “I suppose I can’t stop you now. Do try to keep him from mucking up the place too much, won’t you, Doctor?,” Pine said.

 

“I can’t make promises, Inspector, but I will do my best,” I assured.

 

“Aren’t you coming, Dawson?” Basil asked, having backtracked to see what had been keeping me.

 

I bid farewell to Pine, and followed Basil outside.

 

“What are you thinking Basil?” I asked my friend.

 

He hummed in thought, “We have an unknown black mouse who is skilled not only in the discipline of investigation, but also in hand-to-hand combat. Our vigilante has near pathological attention to detail, and has a penchant for keeping agonizingly thorough records, but a desire to keep his identity a secret. This is all quite fascinating, don’t you think so, Dawson?”

 

“I suppose,” I agreed reluctantly. All of those men were guilty of a serious crime, but the fact that they were all assaulted so viciously by one man was more alarming to me than fascinating, though it didn’t surprise me in the slightest that Basil felt differently than I.

 

“There aren’t a lot of black mice in London,” I pointed out, trying to steer the conversation elsewhere.

 

“No, there are not. But there are enough that tracking this man down will still be tricky”.

 

I sighed, “It’s too bad Whitmore couldn’t give us a good lead to go on”.

 

“Indeed, Doctor, but as you said, there may be more clues at the crime scene!” said Basil excitedly.

 

“Wait, Basil, hold on!” I grabbed his arm to stop him. “Are you truly serious about pursuing this man?”

 

Basil looked as if he couldn’t believe I was asking such a question, “Of course I am! This man needs to be found at once!”

 

“But why? To what end? He hasn’t done anything illegal, so the police aren’t going to arrest him. Pine said they probably won’t even need him to testify. What are you hoping to accomplish?”

 

I didn’t expect Basil to be taken aback by what I had said, but it was plain to see he was nonetheless, “I--nothing!” he waved me off and headed over to Toby. “We’ll figure it out when we find him!”

 

I quickly became suspicious that my friend was less motivated by justice than he was for personal reasons. Basil was one of the most clever people I had ever met, and was certainly the most clever mouse in London, if not all of the United Kingdom. This vigilante had swooped in like a vulture and solved Basil’s case before he had a chance to puzzle it out for himself. I’d imagine Basil felt robbed in some way. He probably wanted to find the mysterious man just to prove that he was still just as intelligent as he and everyone else thought he was.

 

And, of course, I was going to help him do it.

  
“Come along, Dawson!” Basil called as he climbed onto Toby’s haunches, giving the dog an affectionate pat. “The game’s afoot!”


	2. Chapter 2

Unfortunately, the search of the smugglers’ headquarters yielded no clues save for blood splatter and broken teeth, and we retreated back to our flat with no leads on the mysterious vigilante. Basil returned to Scotland Yard to, again, ask Pine to allow him to run tests on the letter, and again Pine refused him. Having come to a dead end, Basil got in touch with his various contacts throughout the city and requested they keep their eyes and ears out for a black mouse possibly named Archer. Then, having exhausted our possibilities, there was nothing left to do but wait for word on our quarry.

 

The vigilante didn’t resurface until several weeks later, when Pine made another late night visit to our flat to inform us that in the time following the smugglers’ arrest, three more men had turned up badly beaten, each for a different offense committed against children (revealing the type of criminals he was targeting). Letters outlining their crimes had been planted on each of the men, signed with the same black bow and arrow drawing as the smuggling case.

 

“It’s a shame,” Pine lamented, “there aren’t any laws against abusing children, so there wasn’t much I could do besides tell them if they didn’t want be beaten by a mysterious man, they shouldn’t hurt children. It was quite a mess”.

 

Basil, who was leaning against his work table and rubbing his temple like he was fending off a headache, angrily asked, “Why didn’t you tell us about this sooner, Pine? You know Dawson and I are looking for this man”.

 

“I’m telling you now,” Pine replied with an eyeroll.

 

“How generous of you,” said Basil sardonically. “Why  _ are  _ you telling us now?”

 

The inspector pulled a small notebook out of his right coat pocket and flipped a few pages in, “Because the third victim, a Mr. Albert Hawthorne, has made it abundantly clear that he wants to have our man charged with assault and battery. Under the circumstances, we are obligated to comply, but we have to find the vigilante first, which is where you come in. As much as I hate to admit it, you could probably find him faster than we can”.

 

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Pine, but unless you have new evidence, then I’m afraid Dawson and I are currently at a dead end”.

 

Pine’s eyes widened a bit at Basil’s admission, but he covered it up with a smirk, “A dead end? My, my, Detective, you must be losing you touch,” he flipped another page in his notebook, “I might have something to help you”.

 

Basil glared at the inspector, “Then out with it. The sooner we catch this fellow, the better”.

 

“It’s not much, just testimony from the victims. It’s only slightly better than what we got from Whitmore. All three victims claim that the vigilante is tall. Mr. Donald Selby, the second victim, was certain our man has brown eyes. His clothes are black: jumper, trousers, coat with a hood, and shiny, black boots that laced up all the way to the knee”.

 

Basil’s head shot up at that, but he didn’t remark on the epiphany I could tell he’d suddenly had. Instead he said, “Well, Inspector, that is not much to go on, but it may help. I must think on it”.

 

Pine shoved the notebook back in his pocket with a sniff, “Just as I thought. If you don’t mind, gentlemen, I think I’m going to take my leave”.

 

I showed Inspector Pine to the door. Once he left, I closed the door with a sigh, “It’s too bad Pine couldn’t give us something useful”.

 

Basil chuckled, “Of course he did, old fellow. Weren’t you listening?”

 

My eyes shot to Basil, who had a gleam in his own green ones, “Of course I was, but I don’t know what you’re talking about”.

 

Basil smiled at me, “The boots”.

 

I arched a brow in response, “The boots?”

 

“Pine said the vigilante was wearing black, knee-high boots that laced all the way up”.

 

“Yes, I heard that. What of it?”

 

Basil explained, “That style of boot is not in fashion. They couldn’t be mass produced like in-fashion shoes are. They would have had to be custom made”.

 

“That doesn’t really help us, Basil. They could have been made anytime by anyone”.

 

“No, no. If you’ll recall, Pine also said that the boots were shiny, which means they’re new, which means--”

 

“They were made recently,” I finished, amazed at Basil’s cleverness.

 

“Exactly!” exclaimed Basil, “and I know just the shoe maker who would have produced them!”

 

* * *

 

“Basil, are you sure this is the place we’re looking for?” I asked, looking up at the run-down building before us with a healthy dose of uncertainty.

 

“Positive,” Basil assured.

 

We were standing at the corner of Stanhope and Longford the next morning. It wasn’t quite a slum, but definitely not the best of neighborhoods. Basil, of course, seemed completely unconcerned about our surroundings, focusing instead on our destination. A mouse-sized storefront was at ground level with a sign saying “Crispin’s Custom Shoes” adorning it.

 

I frowned at the shoes in the window, “What makes you so certain?”

 

“Mr. Crispin is one of the few shoe makers who still makes a pair of shoes completely by hand from start to finish. And he happens to be the only shoe maker in a neighborhood where people tend to not ask a lot of questions”.

 

I was going to ask “Then why would he answer ours?”, but Basil, ever the gung-ho creature that he is, was already walking through the entrance. The inside was surprisingly neat and organized, if a bit dingy. A bell rang to signal our arrival, and immediately, a short, portly field mouse appeared from the back.

 

“Oh, oh! Customers! Welcome, welcome, gentlemen! How can I help you on this fine morning?” he greeted excitedly, sounding genuinely astonished that people had come into his shop. Considering the area of town we were in, I couldn’t say I was surprised.

 

“Good morning, Mr. Crispin! I’m Detective Basil of Baker Street, and this is my associate, Doctor David Dawson,” Basil introduced us cheerfully, but upon hearing who we were, Crispin’s face fell ever so slightly.

 

“Are you now?” he said, his jovial smile taking on an artificial quality.

 

“Yes. We have some questions about a customer that may have commissioned you recently”.

 

Mr. Crispin began shifting from foot to foot, “Oh, well, I’m not sure if you’ve come to the right place, gentlemen. Not a lot of people come in for custom shoes, you know”.

 

My friend fixed a stern, level gaze on the shoe maker. Basil was usually distantly polite when speaking to others, but when he felt it necessary, he could put just the right inflection in his voice or expression to make himself rather intimidating, “But someone did come in here, didn’t they, Mr. Crispin? He paid you to make black boots that came up to the knee with laces all the way up. Am I right?”

 

“N-n-n-now l--look, Detective Basil,” Mr. Crispin stammered. His eyes shifted uneasily shifted between Basil, me, and the door, “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about--”

 

“I think you do,” Basil started to slowly advance on Mr. Crispin, shifting their positions so that Basil was blocking Mr. Crispin’s access to the backroom. I took the opportunity to position myself between the shoe maker and the front door. We couldn’t risk him running if he had information that would aid us in our investigation.

 

“He would have been tall,” Basil continued, “black fur and clothes, perhaps wearing a hood to shadow his face. You know exactly of whom I speak, and you’re protecting him. Why is that, Mr. Crispin? Are you afraid that if you talk, he’ll come for you?”

 

Mr. Crispin’s head shot up, “What? No! I--” he turned around to look at me, then back to Basil. His shoulders slumped in defeat, “If you don’t mind, Detective, there is a newspaper on a shelf just behind the curtain, if you would like to take a look”.

 

Basil’s mouth turned down in confusion, but he poked his head into the back room and retrieved the newspaper nevertheless. He gave the headline a once-over, and then held it up for me to see:

 

**_THE BLACK ARROW: VIGILANTE OR VILLAIN?_ **

 

It was the paper that was published the day after the smugglers were caught. Basil thought that calling our mystery man “The Black Arrow” was a bit sensationalistic. I, on the other hand, found it oddly fitting.

 

“I knew it was him. I knew it was him the moment I read it,” sighed Mr. Crispin in a disheartened tone. “I’ll tell you what I can, but I want you to answer two questions for me first”.

 

“What?” prompted Basil.

 

“The men he hurt. Were they bad? The article doesn’t say”.

 

“Yes,” Basil answered with a nod, “They were using children and young women to smuggle opium into the city".

 

Mr. Crispin wavered, and had to steady himself by grabbing a nearby table, disrupting a display of shoes lying there.

 

“Are you going to arrest him?” Mr. Crispin asked in a whisper.

 

Hesitating for a beat, Basil replied, “Maybe. He has harmed three others since that article was published. They all hurt children, but unfortunately, there are no laws that criminalize such actions, and one of them wants to press charges. We need to find him to get his side of the story”.

  
  


Mr. Crispin’s expression steeled as he took in Basil’s words. Both my friend and I struggled to come up with something else to say to get the shoe maker to talk.

 

“The man left us a lot of evidence to convict the smugglers, but he may still need to testify in court,” I offered. The shoe maker didn’t need to know that what I was saying was only partially true.

 

Silence filled the shop as Mr. Crispin processed what we told him.

 

“Well?” Basil said.

 

Mr. Crispin gestured to some seats that were used to fit people for their shoes, “Sit. Please”.

 

Basil and I moved two chairs next to each other. We both sat down just as Mr. Crispin set a chair across from us.

 

“He came in a few months ago, and he was tall, just as you said. And, yes, he had black fur and clothes. He wasn’t wearing a hood though, so I could see his face just fine. Not a bad looking fellow. There wasn’t really anything remarkable about his appearance save for his eyes. They were quite a light brown color, like cognac. The quality stuff, not that I’ve ever had any,” he laughed uneasily. Then he cleared his throat and continued, “He had an odd sounding accent too. Never heard anything like it before”.

 

Basil stiffened next to me, “Could you tell where he was from?”

 

Mr. Crispin shook his head, “I couldn’t place it. I did ask him where he was from, but all he said was ‘Not from around here’. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful in that regard”.

 

“No, no! That’s actually quite helpful, Mr. Crispin,” Basil encouraged. “What about the boots? Could you please tell us about those?”

 

“Of course. Well, the man said that what he needed were really sturdy boots that would last him a long time. He asked if I could make them come up to the knee. Said he had never gotten used to such ‘consistently chilly temperatures’, and was hoping to fend off the cold year round”.

 

I could sense Basil’s growing excitement coming off him in waves. The shoe maker was certainly giving us decent testimony, and Basil was getting as wound up as a toy. I just hoped he could discern a lead from what Mr. Crispin was telling us, because I couldn’t yet see how the pieces fit together.

 

“The really odd request, though I guess it wasn’t so odd when he gave his explanation, was he asked if it was possible to add steel reinforcement in the toes of the boots”.

 

Basil stilled. Even I knew why that information was significant.

 

_ Felt like a sledgehammer when he kicked my ribs in _ .

 

How one man could subdue a dozen others suddenly became more clear.

 

“I’m assuming you said it was,” I stated.

 

“Well, yes,” replied Mr. Crispin. He went a little pink under his fur.

 

“Why did he request such a thing?” Basil asked.

 

“He said he had gotten a factory job, and before you ask, he didn’t say where,” Basil looked disappointed, but Mr. Crispin went on, “he told me that he had an uncle back home who used to work in a factory and lost a foot in an accident, and he thought a steel toe would give him some protection. I have a friend at a steel mill who owed me a favor, so I thought this commission would be doable. We negotiated a base price and I took his foot measurements. I wasn’t exactly sure how long the work was going to take, so I told him to check back in a couple of days”.

 

“These boots,” I puzzled aloud, “it takes a lot of leather to make knee-high boots, and then a steel cap for each one? They must have been quite expensive”.

 

“Oh, yes,” the shoe maker agreed. “And they took longer than expected to make, mostly because I was waiting on the steel caps, but still, after all was said and done with the cost of materials, labor, and markup for profit, they ended up costing two crowns”.

 

“Two crowns for a pair of boots?” Basil gasped, “and he was able to pay it?”

 

Mr. Crispin didn’t answer. His eyes dropped to the floor and he started shifting uneasily in his seat.

 

“Mr. Crispin? What are you not telling us? Did he not pay you?” asked Basil.

 

The shoe maker sighed, “Oh, he paid me all right,” he lifted his gaze back up to Basil, “he gave me a sovereign”.

 

I coughed profusely in shock, “A  _ sovereign _ ?!”

 

“Yes. Said I deserved it for the excellent craftsmanship. I didn’t want to keep it, because, well, it’s  _ a lot _ of money, but he wouldn’t take it back. He just smiled kindly and told me to use it well, and then he left, and I have not seen him since”.

 

The three of us sat in silence as Basil and I took some time to process Mr. Crispin’s testimony.

 

Basil was slouched a bit in his chair, stroking his chin in thought, “Did he ever give you a name?”

 

Mr. Crispin met Basil’s eyes, but did not answer.

 

“Mr. Crispin?”

 

“Look, Detective, you were right when you said not many come in for custom shoes anymore. The industrialization of shoemaking took right good care of that. Me and my shop are not in a good way. I can barely pay the rent on this place and provide for my family. But this man came in, treated me with nothing but kindness and respect, and paid me double my asking price. I’ll be able to put food on the table for my children for a while now, and it is a weight off my shoulders. I don’t want to be the one responsible if this man goes to jail”.

 

Basil was a little wide eyed at the fierceness in the shoe maker’s tone, “He may not be charged. It depends on what happens after we find him. I can promise you that if he is caught, we will follow the letter of the law precisely when dealing with him”.

 

Mr. Crispin nodded solemnly, “He said his name is Vincent. He didn’t give a last name, and I didn’t ask”.

 

“I see,” stated Basil. “I just have one more question for you, Mr. Crispin, and then Doctor Dawson and I will be on our way”.

 

“Ask away”.

 

“You seem protective of this man. I understand some of it comes from how he treated you, but I saw how you reacted when you found out the men he assaulted were smugglers. What is it you’re not telling us?”

 

It was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. The two men stared each other down while I was a mere spectator to the exchange. 

 

Finally, after several long moments, Mr. Crispin let out a long sigh of resignation, “My wife and eldest daughter, Margaret, worked as seamstresses to supplement what I make here. It wasn’t enough, though. It was never enough. One day, about mid-October of last year, Margaret came home from the shop bursting at the seams with excitement. Another girl she worked with had heard that there was a new 'job opportunity' that had a chance of paying well. She wouldn’t go into details. Said she wanted it to be a surprise. My wife and I didn’t want her to do it. We told her everything would be fine and she could just keep working at the seamstress’. But she was very adamant. She said that she was tired of watching her family go hungry every night, that it wasn’t fair that I make such beautiful, expensive shoes for others, but can’t afford to put a sturdy pair on my own children’s feet. She desperately wanted to help her family get by,” he took in a shuddering breath, his eyes growing glassy, “so we let her go”.

 

There was a feeling of foreboding growing in my chest. I had a feeling I knew where the conversation was going, “What happened to her?”

 

“She left, and she hasn’t been home since. I reported her missing to the police, but they didn’t care. They told us Margaret probably ran away. But Margaret was a good girl, always so eager to do everything in her power to make sure her family was taken care of. She would never just run away!” he shouted vehemently, slamming a fist on the table next to him. 

 

Taking a few deep breaths to collect himself, he said more calmly, “A few weeks after Margaret went missing, my wife started hearing rumors about people going to opium dens and getting sick afterwards. We didn’t want to believe our daughter would get involved with something so vile, but the longer she was gone, and the more people were getting ill from the opium, we knew something bad had happened. Come to find out these smugglers used young women to bring that filthy poison here. So when you tell me that one of my customers hunted these men down, and beat them to a bloody pulp, then, yes, I’m going to feel a little protective”.

 

Basil and I were both struck quite dumb by Mr. Crispin’s words. Neither of us knew what to say to the shoe maker. Trying to comfort the man didn’t seem appropriate. What does one say in such a situation?

 

“I have a question for you, Detective,” Mr. Crispin said. Basil gave one nod of his head to indicate his assent, “do you know what happened to my daughter?”

 

“No,” I could tell by the tone of Basil’s voice, that he wanted to be able to tell Mr. Crispin otherwise, “but there is still a lot of evidence to sort through, Mr. Crispin. Something may yet turn up”.

 

“If it does, will you let me know? I would be in your debt,” said Mr. Crispin.

 

“If we find out anything about Miss Crispin, you will be the first to hear about it, and you wouldn’t owe us a thing,” Basil stood from his seat, and I followed suit. “If there is nothing else, Mr. Crispin, I think Doctor Dawson and I are going to take our leave”.

 

Standing to see us to the door, Mr. Crispin said, “I wish you good hunting, Detective. Oh, one more thing,” he grabbed Basil’s arm to stop him, “If you find him, send him my way. I’d like to shake his hand”.

 

Basil nodded once, “Of course,” and we were out the door. Wordlessly, we walked the few blocks to where we had left Toby. I considered asking Basil if anything Mr. Crispin had said gave him any insight about this “Vincent” fellow, but he was so lost in thought, he most likely wouldn’t have responded to me. Toby took us back to Baker Street at a leisurely pace, as there was no real rush to get back.

 

“What do you make of all this, Dawson?” Basil asked me once we were a few blocks away from our flat.

 

“I don’t know,” I replied honestly. “I do think this Vincent chap lied to Mr. Crispin about what he wanted the boots for”.

 

“Indeed. I think what our vigilante wanted was protection from attacks to his legs, and weapons can be hidden in the boot leg. The steel toes were, obviously, to cause more damage when kicking someone. All things considered, Doctor, I think everything he told Mr. Crispin was a lie, down to his name”.

 

“You don’t think his name is Vincent?” I asked.

 

“Of course not. Think about it, Dawson, he wants to remain anonymous. Someone clever enough to collect the amount of evidence he did is clever enough not to use his real name when speaking to others. I do, however, think the name is significant to him in some way. His father’s name, perhaps, or his mother’s maiden name, but that still doesn’t help us much”.

 

“At least some of our questions were answered. We know that he purchased the boots specifically for combat purposes,” I offered.

 

“Yes, but now we have a slew of new questions along with the ones that still aren’t answered. You’ll recall that Mr. Crispin said our man spoke with an accent that he had never heard before. So this fellow is a foreigner. What is he doing in London?  He was also able to afford to pay a sovereign for a pair of boots that cost two crowns. How? Where did his money come from? Was it inherited? Does he have a benefactor? We’re at a dead end again for the moment, Dawson. I’m going to need time to think about this”.

 

We arrived in the humans’ flat to drop off Toby, and made our way through the hole in the wall that led to our own home.

 

A thought suddenly occurred to me, “What about the factories? The Black Arrow told Mr. Crispin he got a factory job”.

 

“He was lying,” scoffed Basil.

 

“Maybe,” I conceded, “but we don’t really know for sure. It wouldn’t hurt to ask around. Unskilled factory labor makes up a large percent of the entire work force. Someone might have heard something about The Black Arrow”.

 

“Hmm...I suppose we could ask around. You’re right, it couldn’t hurt,” he said as we entered our flat.

 

“About time you got here,” came a voice from Basil’s armchair. We walked into the sitting room proper to see who it was. There was Inspector Pine, sitting in Basil’s chair, sipping tea out of Basil’s teacup. Really, the man was turning up to our flat so often, it almost felt like he was a third roommate.

 

“What do you want now, Pine?” Basil growled.

 

“No need to be so testy, Detective. I come bearing news,” said Pine.

 

“Then get on with it. Dawson and I have a lot of work to do”.

 

“Does it perchance involve your pursuit of The Black Arrow?” Pine asked.

 

“Your news, Pine. I don’t have time for your taunts”.

 

Pine stood to face Basil, “I’ll take that as an affirmative. You should be happy I’m here then”.

 

Basil glared, “And why is that?”

 

Pine smiled, “Because The Black Arrow has struck again”.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Please review it makes me happy


	3. Chapter 3

The home of Edmund and Helen Chattoway was a spacious, posh place on Gloucester not terribly far from the Natural History Museum. They were a fairly young, well-to-do dormouse couple; Mr. Chattoway had some connections to the nobility. His father may have been a business heir, but to what, I never found out. Mrs. Chattoway was a pretty little thing, and quite a socialite too. Both of them were often seen at London’s most exclusive parties. Now, however, they could be found on a sofa in their sitting room. Their little daughter, Hazel, was sitting in between them and fidgeting with a doll in her lap. The girl, a near carbon copy of her mother, couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old. She reminded me an awful lot of Olivia Flaversham, the girl from Basil’s and my first case together, and that made the predicament that Hazel Chattoway had gone through all the more jarring for me.

 

The story, as it was recounted to Basil and me, was that four days prior, Mr. and Mrs. Chattoway had attended a gala event at the Museum. Hazel stayed home in the care of her nanny, Miss Lucille Fairfield. Miss Fairfield put Hazel to bed at her usual time, but when the young nanny went to check on Hazel a few hours later, the girl’s bedroom window was wide open and Hazel was gone. The kidnapper, currently in police custody, left behind a note demanding five hundred pounds from Mr. and Mrs. Chattoway in return for their daughter, and told them to leave it in a sack in an inconspicuous location in Hyde Park. The Chattoways, desperate to get their child back safe and sound, had spent the next few days trying to come up with the ransom money; the couple may have been an upper class family, but not many people have five hundred pounds lying around. That morning, while Basil and I were questioning Mr. Crispin, the police had received another anonymous tip from The Black Arrow on a missing child’s whereabouts. When they went to the location, an abandoned boarding house, The Black Arrow was nowhere to be found, but they found a mouse named Robert Chase. Mr. Chase was a bit worse for wear, not nearly as bad as the smugglers, but it would still take a long time for the bruises on his face to fade away. They also found Hazel mercifully unharmed, with a large envelope from The Black Arrow. Hazel was returned to her parents, and they were informed, to their utter horror, that Mr. Chase was the lover of Miss Fairfield, and that the whole plan was hatched by the nanny so she and Mr. Chase could get married and live comfortably until Mr. Chase found a job to support them. And so both Mr. Chase and Miss Fairfield were both in jail awaiting trial for conspiracy, kidnapping and extortion. The Chattoways were devastated to learn the woman they had entrusted with their daughter’s care could betray them so completely. Looking at them sitting together, their faces were drawn and sullen, including little Hazel. Such an expression had no business on the face of a child.

 

“Now, Mr. and Mrs. Chattoway, are you absolutely certain you have told me everything? Even the smallest detail could have great importance in a case,” said Basil, who had been pacing the whole time he had questioned the Chattoways while I sat in an armchair near the sofa.

 

Mr. Chattoway nodded his head, “Yes, Detective. That’s the entirety of what we know,” he turned to his wife for confirmation and she nodded her head.

 

“Is Miss Fairfield going to be arrested?” asked Mrs. Chattoway.

 

“She’s already been arrested,” stated Pine, who was standing nearby, “and she and her coconspirator will stand trial for what they have done”.

 

“Will Hazel have to testify?”

 

Pine held Mrs. Chattoway’s eye for a moment before turning his gaze to Hazel, and then back with a sigh, “Perhaps. We have confessions from both perpetrators and written evidence from The Black Arrow, but testimony from Hazel may help get a conviction. We won’t know for sure until we turn the evidence over to the barristers”.

 

“What about The Black Arrow?” Mr. Chattoway demanded. “He saved my daughter, and I would like to thank him”.

 

“That’s why we’re here, Mr. Chattoway,” I said. “Detective Basil and I are trying to locate him. We need all the information we can get if we are going to be successful”.

 

“Which bring us to our next order of business,” Basil cut in. “I would like to question your daughter. Alone, if you don’t mind”.

 

“I do mind!” Mr. Chattoway cried. “My daughter has been through an ordeal and has only been back home for a few hours. Can it not wait until she’s rested?”

 

Hazel, who had been quiet the whole time Basil and I had been at the Chattoway residence, tugged on her father’s shirt sleeve, “It’s all right, Papa. I’d like to tell them about the nice man who rescued me”. 

 

Mr. Chattoway took his daughter’s hand. “Hazel, sweetheart, are you sure? You don’t have to talk to anyone right now if you don’t want to”.

 

Looking up at her father with her big, dark eyes, little Hazel simply said, “I want to”.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Chattoway locked eyes. A silent exchange took place between them, and a decision was made. Mr. Chattoway stood up and left the room; Mrs. Chattoway lingered for a moment, stroking her daughter’s fur.

 

“Hazel, dear, Mummy and Papa will just be in the next room. You call us if you need anything, all right?”

 

Hazel smiled, “Yes, Mum”.

 

Mrs. Chattoway gave one last reassuring pat to Hazel’s head, and then exited the room to join her husband.

 

“You too, Pine,” said Basil.

 

The inspector snorted, “Anything Ms. Chattoway says may be pertinent to the case. I’m staying”.

 

Basil glared at Pine for a few moments, “Very well. Dawson,” I turned my attention to Basil, who inclined his head in Hazel’s direction, and I moved from my chair to sit next to the girl.

 

It’s not that Basil dislikes children, exactly, but he confided in me once that he had a rather...isolated upbringing. The majority of the people Basil has interacted with since his youth have been adults, and consequently, it has rendered him uncomfortable around children because he does not know how to act around them. But I have always had a fondness for children. Their honesty, insightfulness, and bluntness can be refreshing after talking to reserved adults. In all my years, I have found that the best way to talk to a child is to be quiet and listen, and also to treat them with respect. That’s what everyone really wants, I think. From our first case on, there was an unspoken agreement between Basil and I that if children were involved with a case, it would be primarily I who would deal with them while Basil listened and asked questions as they came to him.

 

“Miss Hazel, you said you wanted to tell us about the man who came to save you. Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

 

“Well, it’s just as Papa said. Him and Mum left for the party, and Miss Lucille tucked me in for the night once they were gone. I was just starting to fall asleep when I heard my door open and someone came in. It was a man I had never seen before, so I started to scream for Miss Lucille, but the man put his hand over my mouth and told me to be quiet. He pulled me out of bed and opened my window and carried me off”.

 

“That doesn’t corroborate with what Ms. Fairfield told the girl’s parents. That means she probably let him in,” observed Pine while writing a note in a little book he had with him.

 

For just a moment, Hazel looked particularly distraught, but she bravely collected herself and continued with her story, “The man sneaked us onto a human carriage. I was very scared. I didn’t know what to do. We weren’t on the carriage that long, and when it stopped the man dragged me to the boarding house. I started crying and told him I wanted to go home. He told me to shut up because I wasn’t going home until he got paid. He made me stay in that awful place for days. And he wasn’t nice at all”

 

I laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder, “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

 

Sniffling, Hazel shook her head, “No. He fed me awful, sticky porridge though, but I don’t think that counts”.

 

I chuckled at the girl’s good humor. It was good to see that she could make a little joke after what she had been through. 

 

“Did you ever see Miss Fairfield during the course of your confinement? Did Mr. Chase say anything about her at all?” Pine asked.

 

“No, sir,” Hazel replied. “I didn’t even know he knew her until the man in black came”.

 

“The man in black,” Basil hummed, “what can you tell us about him?”

 

“Well, he came in this morning while Mr. Chase was gone. I was still sleeping and he woke me up. He told me the police were on their way and he handed me an envelope and told me to give it to the police when they arrived. That’s when Mr. Chase came back. Him and the man in black started fighting and Mr. Chase kept trying to hit him but he was too fast. He punched Mr. Chase in the face a few times and he must have hit him quite hard because Mr. Chase fell to the floor and didn’t get back up”.

 

Her statement seemed to match up with the evidence, but we still needed to know more about The Black Arrow, “What did the man in black do after that, Miss Hazel?” I prompted.

 

Hazel continued to fiddle with her doll, “He came over by me and asked if I was all right. He talked a bit funny, but I didn’t tell him so, I just said yes. He reminded me to give the envelope to the police and that he had to leave before they got there. He started to walk away but I got scared again and told him not to leave me alone. He stopped in the doorway and I thought he was going to leave anyway but he came back and sat with me. We talked for a little while. I asked him if he knew why Mr. Chase had taken me away and he said he had reason to believe Miss Lucille was responsible for it all. I didn’t believe him at first. I told him that Miss Lucille loved me and had taken care of me my whole life. The man in black said he knew that sometimes people who love you don’t show it very well, but if someone arranges to have you kidnapped for money, it means they don’t love you. I--I started crying again. I said Miss Lucille must have done it because I was bad, but the man in black said what Miss Lucille and Mr. Chase did was a reflection on them and not me, but I’m not sure what that means”.

 

“My dear, it means Ms. Fairfield and Mr. Chase did what they did because they’re the bad ones, not you. I’m sure you’re a wonderful little girl”.

 

“Yes, yes,” Basil blurted in agitation, “I’m sure she’s a delight, but we need to know more about the man in black. Did he tell you anything about himself? His name? Where he was from? How he even found out about your abduction?”

 

Hazel’s eyes went wide, looking a little overwhelmed, “No, sir. He just asked questions about me, and I answered him. Then we heard the police coming and he said it was time for him to leave. I asked him why he couldn’t stay and he said the police would be upset if they knew who he was. He wished me luck and then he ran out the back way and then the police came and took me home”.

 

“Pine, could The Black Arrow be a disgruntled police reject?” Basil inquired thoughtfully.

 

“There have been no applicants who fit the description,” the inspector answered. “Besides, if he can solve cases this quickly he wouldn’t have been rejected for the force”.

 

“Then why does he think you’d be upset if you were privy to his identity?” Basil wondered.

 

“Perhaps a felon trying to atone for his misdeeds?” I speculated. “Besides the ones he’s already committed”.

 

“I was rescued by a felon?” Hazel asked. I was suddenly mortified that we had been discussing such things in the presence of a young girl.

 

“Of course not, my dear,” I backtracked. There was no sense in traumatizing the girl any more than she already was.

 

“I think we should send Miss Chattoway’s parents back in here and we can continue our discussion outside,” suggested Pine. “I have something for you anyway, Detective”.

 

That caught Basil’s attention, and the two of them left the sitting room. Within a few moments, Mr. and Mrs. Chattoway appeared to check on their daughter. I rose from my seat and smiled down at little Hazel.

 

“You’re very brave, you know. Not many people could get kidnapped and keep calm the way you did,” I told her.

 

“We’re just glad to have her home,” said Mr. Chattoway as he sat on the sofa and scooped his daughter into his lap.

 

“Of course,” I said, grabbing my coat. “I think I need to go join my associate and the inspector. I bid you all a good evening. I’m sure the inspector will get in touch with you if he needs anything else”.

 

I slipped on my coat and showed myself out. Basil and Pine were standing outside. Pine was holding out a piece of paper to Basil, but as my friend reached for it, Pine pulled it away.

 

“I mean it, Detective, none of your chemical tests. I’ve seen what you do to evidence. If you compromise the integrity of this letter, I will tarnish your reputation so completely you’ll never be able to show your face in polite society ever again. You hear me?”

 

Basil snatched the letter out of Pine’s hand, “Don’t be so dramatic, Pine. As if I’d ever destroy official police evidence”.

 

Pine muttered something indiscernible under his breath and stormed off.

 

“What was that all about?” I asked Basil.

 

My friend held up the piece of paper he’d received from Pine, “It’s The Black Arrow’s first letter from the smuggling case. Pine is allowing me to examine it for any leads”.

 

“That was generous of him,” I commented.

 

“Oh, hardly. He’s just as invested in The Black Arrow’s identity as we are. Maybe now we can find him,” Basil put the letter in his pocket and whistled for Toby to take us back to Baker Street.

* * *

"What are you thinking, Basil?" I asked. My friend was pacing our sitting room, reading and rereading The Black Arrow's letter as if a breakthrough would just jump out at him.

 

"His penmanship is clean and quite elegant. At some point he had the time to hone this style of handwriting. And his tone! This man is obviously educated, which means he comes from an upper class family. How does one go from that to covertly assaulting criminals?"

 

Sipping my tea, I contemplated the thought, "Could he have been disowned and is now trying to prove himself?"

 

Basil hummed, “I don’t think so, Doctor. If he wanted to prove himself, he wouldn’t be operating covertly. He would want everyone to know who he is”.

 

Basil was right, of course. I sighed, not sure what other possibilities there were in this situation. It was baffling and confounding that we could know as much as we did about The Black Arrow, but still know so little as well. The only comfort at that moment was that Basil hadn’t reverted to his more melancholy mood. 

 

“Dawson, does this paper feel odd to you?” he reached out and handed me the letter as he sat down in his armchair.

 

I held the paper carefully in my hands, trying not to damage the sheet, but I could tell immediately what Basil was talking about. Whatever The Black Arrow had used to compose the letter, it was not traditional stationary. I knew exactly what type of paper this was. I held it in my hands every morning and evening over tea.

 

“It feels like newspaper,” I observed in amazement.

 

Basil shot up out of his seat like a bolt of lightning, snatching the paper from my hands and striding over to his work table. Slipping the letter under the microscope, he gazed into the eyepiece to inspect it more closely.

 

“It is newspaper!” Basil confirmed with vim and vigor in his voice, “And the ink he used to write with is used with linotype machines!”

 

“But what does that mean, exactly?” I questioned. This was quite an exciting development, but I wasn’t sure what the conclusion of the lead was.

 

“Come now, Dawson! Elementary! This sheet of paper was blank before our vigilante wrote upon it, which means he has access to these materials before the newspapers are printed. If you look closely at the letter, the paper is discolored in spots, suggesting the paper is old, and that means that his location has been abandoned,” Basil walked over to his map of London, and ran a finger along the various streets and roads until he settled on a spot on London’s northeast corner.

 

“I believe I have discovered The Black Arrow’s hideout!” he declared triumphantly. He grabbed his inverness for the second time that day and dashed for the passage up to Mr. Holmes’ flat.

 

“Hurry along, Doctor,” he called, his voice becoming more distant, “we have a vigilante to confront!”

  
I let out a long-suffering sigh, slipping on my coat as I obediently followed the detective.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we get started, "hawkshaw" is an old timey word for a detective

For the second time in less than a week, I was gazing up at a run down building. The neighborhood was slightly better than the location of the shoe maker’s shop, at least. Basil was looking at the abandoned newspaper printery (located inside an abandoned human newspaper printery) with a fire in his eyes that gave me pause. While Basil was normally voracious in his pursuit of justice, and I no less enthusiastic in accompanying him, standing in front of another seedy building without a clearly laid-out plan had me doubting (not for the first time) his mental stability.

 

“You know, you never told me what we’re going to do if we find this fellow,” I grumbled. “We don’t have backup yet to help us”. Something told me Basil himself didn’t even really know. Either that or he did have a plan and the notion of something going awry hadn’t occurred to him. Both scenarios left me with a sense of impending doom. 

 

“Details, details,” Basil replied nonchalantly, more or less confirming the former scenario, which did exactly nothing to alleviate my reluctance. “Come, come, Doctor. If our vigilante has taken up residence inside, we should have a look before he becomes wise to our presence and flees”.

 

Without ado, we entered the abandoned printery. The inside was in even greater disrepair than the outside. Giant human linotype machines in varying states of decrepitude lined the place from front to back. The scent of ink, metal, dust, and old paper assaulted our noses as we crept between the machines. Because we did not know where The Black Arrow was residing in the building, or if he was currently present in the first place, we took extra care to investigate as quietly as possible, barely speaking to each other at all. We traversed the massive expanse of the printery in search of any sign of our quarry, but as the minutes ticked by into hours, neither hide nor hair of The Black Arrow was apparent. Basil kept his eyes to the dusty floor looking for footprints or other clues, his eyebrows knitting further and further together in his every growing frustration. It was a sentiment that I fully empathized with at the time.

 

We rounded the corner of a linotype machine near the back wall. Basil still had his eyes on the floor in front of him. I, on the other hand, had my attention focused on the area around us. It was quite dim inside the printery with only tiny streams of light filtering through the dingy windows, and I had to squint my eyes to see. But along the far wall, coming out of a well shadowed crack in the baseboard that led outside, I could see them clearly: footprints in the dust. Despite my earlier apprehension, a surge of excitement coursed through me, and I tugged on Basil’s coat sleeve to alert him of my findings. Furor etched its way across his face, and he dashed toward the footprints with me trailing not too far behind him. He kneeled on the floor, pulling out his magnifying glass to get a better look.

 

“These are definitely from our vigilante,” he whispered while panning the magnifying glass over the footprints. It was difficult to distinguish some of them, as there were several sets going in and out from the crack in the wall. “The newest ones are only a few days old”. 

 

The excitement I had felt mere moments prior was suddenly dissipated, “That means he hasn’t been here”. 

 

“Or he he hasn’t left since last returning,” countered Basil. “Or there is another entrance we have yet to find”.

 

As always, Basil thought of possibilities I hadn’t, so I simply nodded in agreement as he took a few more moments to examine the footprints. Once he was finished, we began to follow the trail. It led past and around the machine we were standing by toward the adjacent wall and disappeared around the corner. The footprints continued toward the baseboard along the wall. 

 

And then abruptly stopped. 

 

“What the devil?” I cursed. Basil remained silent, leaning in close to the baseboard with his magnifying glass to get a closer inspection. 

 

“Dawson, I believe we found the entrance to the printery run by our people,” he declared.

 

I glanced at him skeptically, “How could you possibly know that?” 

 

Basil grabbed my wrist with one hand, and with the other gestured at a spot along the baseboard, “Feel here, along this part,” I did, and was surprised to feel a seam in the wood which extended up, over, and back down. It was a hidden door, not so different from the one Basil and I used to access Mr. Holmes’ flat above our own. 

 

“Give it a push, old man. I suspect it will open easily enough,” said Basil, looking pleased with himself. 

 

I did as Basil asked, and gave the door a decent heave. It opened with only minor resistance, and within moments we were peering inside a room that looked exactly like the printery behind us, only mouse-sized. The only difference was that there were no windows, so several lamps were scattered about the place, some lit and some not. What caught our attention, however, was the large collage of news articles tacked to the wall to our left. Basil immediately rushed to have a better look, grabbing one of the lamps as he went.

 

“These are articles pertaining to the cases he’s solved,” Basil observed when he got close enough. “See, here’s the one about the smugglers. Here’s one about the Chattoways. And look! Information about the criminals! My, my he really is thorough. Names, aliases, criminal history, last known location. There are a few here I haven’t seen in the news. Hmm. Dougal Campbell. I haven’t heard of him. This says he’s suspected of trafficking. Trafficking what, I wonder. Dawson? Dawson, are you listening?”

 

I was listening, but only distantly. My attention had been caught by a group of articles that were separate from the rest.

 

They were articles about Basil and me, about the cases we had solved together.

 

“Basil,” I called, “I think you should take a look at this”.

 

Reluctantly tearing himself away from the other articles, Basil came over to look at what I had discovered.

 

“Well, that’s disconcerting. I wonder why he’s interested in us,” Basil mused, sounding only mildly unnerved.

 

“You don’t--you don’t think he’s after us?” I asked, disturbed at the thought.

 

Scoffing, Basil said, “Don’t be absurd. He goes after criminals, and we are no such thing. No, I’d imagine what our vigilante is doing is sniffing out the competition. Though what he plans to do with this information remains unclear”. He narrowed his eyes at the group of news articles, and we continued examining the other clippings on the wall until we reached the back of the printery. There, we were astonished to find, was a more homey looking space, if one could call it that. In the corner was a mattress made of shredded bits of paper, and covered with a shabby looking blanket. Beyond that was a pile of dark clothing, a small table with a chair, stacks of torn blank newspaper, a few bottles of ink and pens, and about half a dozen boxes filled with logs keeping track of different degenerates in the city. All the things that didn’t fit on the walls, Basil guessed.

 

“He’s clearly only using this place to sleep and further his investigations,” Basil turned this way and that looking about the place. “There isn’t even any food here. No personal possessions. Nothing”.

 

“Yes, but he’s also clearly not here either,” I pointed out with a sigh. “I think we should leave. This place is too sparse for any clues to be forthcoming”.

 

Basil dropped a piece of paper back into the box he’d taken it from, and set down the lamp he’d been holding, “You’re right, Dawson. I hoped we’d find something that could give us some insight into who this man is. I thought…,” he trailed off but didn’t continue. He just sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets looking utterly dejected. “Come. Let’s go. It seems we’ve come up empty”.

 

No sooner had we started making our way back to the door that Basil and I both heard it: the sound of wood creaking somewhere near one of the linotype machines. The Black Arrow was there. He’d been there the whole time, watching us. I squinted my eyes to see through the dimness of the room, but it was an effort in futility. The shadows were too perfect a place for a black mouse clad in black clothing to hide.

 

“See here!” Basil called with an air of authority, “We know you’re there! Show yourself at once!”

 

A few beats of thick silence passed. I thought for a moment that we had been mistaken, that maybe The Black Arrow wasn’t in the printery with us, but then the sound of movement among the machines could be heard. In the darkness, I could see a hooded figure appear. He slowly advanced toward us, the light from the lamps casting an eerie glow on his dark form. _Black as the devil_. Whitmore hadn’t been exaggerating.

 

“I was wondering if I was ever going to meet you, hawkshaw. To what do I owe this truly high honor?,” Basil and I froze when we heard The Black Arrow speak. His voice was higher pitched than I was expecting, and filled with an unsettling tone of childish delight. But what grabbed my attention was the one characteristic both Mr. Crispin and little Hazel Chattoway thought was of note: his accent. To me, it was distinctly American. East coast, if my ears served me correctly. This answered the question of where this fellow was from, but as Basil says, when one question is answered, ten more are asked. Now we needed to find out how on earth an American ended up in London on a crusade to save children.

 

The Black Arrow stopped walking a few metres in front of us. His hood obscured most of his face and the poor lighting was more than advantageous for the effect. The only things that were not obscured, though, were the long lead pipe in his left hand and his infamous steel-capped boots. Both were a pressing reminder that Basil and I had come unarmed.

 

“Have you come to arrest me?” asked The Black Arrow, but he didn’t sound at all worried about the prospect. Skilled as he was at fighting, he didn’t need to be.

 

“Why, of course not, old fellow. We’ve simply come to talk,” said Basil in his characteristic pleasantly aloof tone that he reserved for delicate situations like this, “You’ve made quite an impression on both sides of the law here in London. I suppose my associate and I are curious. We have a few questions for you, if you’d be so kind as to indulge us”.

 

The Black Arrow didn’t say anything for a several moments. He just held Basil’s gaze, or at least, I think he did; his hood made it difficult to tell. Then, his head turned in my direction, and a bit of light illuminated his eyes as they met mine. They were a sharp, piercing, pale brown color, like amber, and held no warmth in them. I gulped nervously as The Black Arrow stared me down. I got the feeling that the man was appraising me, and the sensation only unsettled me further. This man seemed like the exact opposite of the kind and respectful person Mr. Crispin and Miss Chattoway described, and I couldn’t help but wonder what aspects of The Black Arrow were genuine and which were an act.

 

He turned his head back to Basil, and let out a sharp breath through his nose, “That’s not why you’re here”.

 

“I beg your pardon?” questioned Basil, his expression falling slightly.

 

“Well, that’s not the whole reason why you’re here. I do have my guesses though. But! That’s not important. You have questions, and because I am a considerate, generous person, I will indulge you. Ask away, hawkshaw”.

 

“Very well. First off, would you mind removing your hood? I would much rather have a conversation with a man who’s not afraid to show me his face,” said Basil, some of the pleasantness gone from his tone.

 

Another beat of silence. The Black Arrow seemed hesitant, but then shrugged, “I suppose that’s fair,” and with the hand that wasn’t holding the lead pipe, he pulled down his hood, revealing a face with features that were soft, but still quite handsome, if a tad gaunt. His snout, shorter than Basil’s but longer than mine, was tipped with a beige nose that matched the insides of his large ears. The rest of his fur, true to description, was black as pitch.

 

He held his arms out in presentation, “Well? Is this more to your liking?”

 

Basil gave The Black Arrow a once over, taking in his features and memorizing them, “Your weapon,” he said instead of answering, “dispose of it, if you please”.

 

A grin broke out on The Black Arrow’s face, something wicked and smug, like he was privy to something we weren’t. He looked down at the pipe in his hand, “I don’t think so”.

 

“We mean you no harm,” I said reassuringly.

 

The Black Arrow looked at me skeptically, “I can’t know that for sure. You’re the ones who barged into my abode. I’m well within my right to be armed”.

 

“Spoken like a true American,” Basil commented distastefully under his breath. “Consider it a gesture of good faith,” he said loud enough for The Black Arrow to hear.

 

“Fine,” the vigilante relented with another shrug. He crouched to place the pipe on the ground, then stood and nudged the pipe off to the side with his boot. “I suppose if it comes down to it, I don’t need a weapon to hurt you”.

 

Basil narrowed his eyes at The Black Arrow while I audibly gulped. We both knew the man was right. I had combat training in the army, but I had not seen much active combat as a doctor. My time had been spent in triage trying to save lives, not take them. Basil, though his human idol was a skilled boxer, was absolutely useless in a physical fight. He had the scars from his confrontation with Professor Ratigan to prove it. The truth of the matter was that we were outmatched, and all I could do was hope things didn’t go downhill.

 

“You were hiding,” Basil remarked, his eyes darting to the linotypes behind the vigilante. “How did you know we were here?”

 

Smirking, The Black Arrow said, “Afghani catgut. Such an odd thing to smell in an abandoned newspaper printery, and, good lord, does the stench permeate a room, even with the door closed”.

 

Basil shot me an irritated look and heat flooded my cheeks in embarrassment. On more than one occasion, Basil had said that I needed to stop mending my own clothes with my surgical thread, as the catgut I had acquired in Afghanistan had such a distinctive smell it could potentially interfere with our investigations in any number of ways. I wouldn’t say it interfered in this instance since we still ended up finding The Black Arrow, but I couldn’t help feeling like a scolded child nonetheless.

 

“And you knew my associate had spent time in Afghanistan, and so knew it was us,” Basil extrapolated. “Impressive”.

 

“It wasn’t that hard to figure out,” The Black Arrow dismissed. “Aren’t you going to ask me any difficult questions?”

 

Basil’s lips turned down as he thought of a response, then settled on asking, “Who are you?”

 

“Now _that_ is a hard-hitting question, hawkshaw! And one I’m afraid I can’t easily answer for you”.

 

“Your name will do fine for a start,” said Basil.

 

The vigilante gestured to the clippings on the wall behind us “Your newspapers call me The Black Arrow. Seems as apt as anything”.

 

“Your real name,” Basil demanded through gritted teeth.

 

“If you honestly think I’m going to tell you that, then you’re woefully and hilariously mistaken”.

 

“Would I be mistaken in thinking your name is Vincent?” Basil asked pointedly. “We know it’s one you’ve been using”.

 

I don’t know what reaction Basil was hoping to elicit from the The Black Arrow. The one he got was a complete, albeit brief, stripping of the vigilante’s bravado. The smile died away from The Black Arrow’s face, and he looked down at his boots with an indiscernible expression on his face.

 

“What’s the matter, old boy?” Basil taunted. “Didn’t think we’d discover any of your aliases?”

 

“It’s not that. I find it unfortunate that someone as kind as Mr. Crispin got pulled into this”.

 

There was something about that statement didn’t sit well with me: how with the mention of his alias he knew we had spoken to Mr. Crispin, “The shoe maker is the only person you’ve given your name to?” I asked.

 

“He’s the only person I’ve given _that_ name to,” he replied.

 

“But the name does mean something to you, doesn’t it?” Basil began pacing back and forth in front of the vigilante, who tracked Basil’s movements with a sharp look. “I originally thought it was a family name. Your father’s name or your mother’s maiden name”.

 

“You’d be wrong in both cases”.

 

“Oh, I know it! I didn’t put the pieces together until I heard you speak,” said Basil, a smug look creeping onto his face.

 

The Black Arrow’s tail twitched, but his expression remained devoid of emotion. 

 

Basil continued, “You are from Baltimore, are you not? Oh, don’t deny it, my good man. Your accent gave you away. Mr. Crispin mentioned it, as did Hazel Chattoway, so we knew that you were a foreigner. What I didn’t understand when I first walked in here was how someone could leave their family behind for a life like this, but now I know that you don’t have a family. You’re an orphan. I’ve read that St. Vincent’s Infant Asylum is quite the institution in rodential Baltimore. Am I correct so far?” 

 

The continued silence was all the confirmation Basil needed.

 

“That brings me to your signature you have used in your letters: the bow and arrow. Now, assuming that your surname is St. Vincent, as it’s quite common for foundlings to be named for the orphanage at which they are left, that leaves your first name. I am convinced that it’s Archer”.

 

A laugh burst forth from The Black Arrow. It was sharp, unattractive, and condescension dripped from it like venom from a viper’s fangs, “Oh! Oh, you’re so close. _So close_. I would almost be impressed, if you weren’t still wrong”.

 

Frowning, Basil said, “Then enlighten me”.

 

“Why would I want to do that?” The Black Arrow asked mockingly. “This game is fun”.

 

“Then a hint, perhaps?” I suggested. “Certainly there’s no harm in that”.

 

The Black Arrow considered my words for a moment, “I suppose a hint couldn’t hurt. You are right in assuming foundlings are named after their orphanages, but names can be changed. The bow and arrow is a symbol of the mouse I am now”.

 

“And who is that?” questioned Basil.

 

Stepping into Basil’s personal space, The Black Arrow got right in his face. He was just about Basil’s height, if not a hair taller, “If you’re so clever, hawkshaw, then you can figure it out”.

 

Basil didn’t flinch, “I fully intend to”.

 

“You will try. I doubt you will succeed”.

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because all you really have is speculation. You have nothing other than your over-inflated sense of superiority to tell you that you are right, because I’m not going to outright confirm anything. You know nothing about me except what criminals, a grateful shoe maker, and a young child have told you. I can speculate about you too, you know. And I have a lot more information at my disposal”.

 

“You believe your deduction skills are on par with my own?” Basil asked in disbelief. “Then, pray, give us a demonstration! I think it’ll prove to be entertaining, at the very least”.

 

The Black Arrow simply smiled his wicked smile, and started circling around Basil in a predatory manner, “You come from a wealthy family, wealthy enough to give you a good education. Judging from the fact that you aren’t the heir to whatever venture your family is involved in that got them their money, I think it’s safe to assume that you have an older brother to fill that position. I’m also going to go out on a limb and say that you also have an older sister, making you the baby of the bunch. Am I on the right track so far?”

 

“I won’t confirm anything until you’ve finished,” Basil said with a look on his face that suggested he was surprised, but was trying to hide it.

 

“I’ll take that as a yes. Anyway, you showed the makings of a brilliant mind at a young age, something that was valued and encouraged in your family, but ended up alienating you from your peers as you grew up. You didn’t have many friends as a child, except your siblings who loved their baby brother unconditionally despite how insufferable he could be. No, you didn’t make any real friends until you went to university. I had to look up where: Oxford. It’s surprising how easy enrollment records are to come by if you ask the right people, but that’s neither here nor there. Oxford was where you thrived, absorbing all the knowledge you could about any and every subject, and it’s also where you finally found people who appreciated your genius instead of ostracizing you for it. You graduated top of your class with honors. After that, you relocated to London because you had a dream of becoming a high-ranking detective with Scotland Yard”.

 

So far, to my knowledge, The Black Arrow was completely spot on with his deductions, and all I could do was stand there in shock, mouth agape. It felt wrong hearing intimate details about Basil’s life come out of a stranger’s mouth. Basil himself looked rather disquieted by the proceedings.

 

“Scotland Yard didn’t appreciate your intellect, though, did they?” The Black Arrow continued, “the police force is an institution where you have to  pay your dues and brown-nose to get ahead. There’s this expectation of keeping your head down and doing what you’re told no matter what. A policeman’s heart is usually in the right place, but they generally care more about finding someone to lock up than actual justice and truth. Your superiors found your skills insolent and counterproductive to their ends, so you were relegated to desk duty. You could not abide this, so you left the police force to make your own way. You happened upon the human, Sherlock Holmes, independent consulting detective, and found your true calling. That brings us to where we are right at this very moment”.

 

“I don’t see how this proves anything. You could have found that out from anywh--”.

 

“You’re right,” The Black Arrow agreed, “details about someone’s background aren’t _that_ hard to get, are they, _Sherringford_? But who you are as a person? There’s the challenge!”

 

Basil’s hackles rose upon the use of his first name, the one that no one ever used when speaking to him, not even me. “Get on with it, then,” he sneered.

 

The Black Arrow took a deep breath, and began, “You are quite a multifaceted, complicated person. When you are investigating a case, you are fearless, determined, driven, and singularly focused in your task, so much so that you do not stop until your task is done, often neglecting your own personal needs in the process. You fancy yourself as a proper English gentleman, and so you conduct yourself with dignity, honor, honesty, respect, wit, and charm. And, really, it should go without saying that you are incredibly intelligent. Being able to find me is proof enough. Nearly everyone in London knows these things about you; I’ve read it in the newspapers and heard it on the streets. What they don’t know are the downsides to operating at an intellectual level far above everyone else. It breeds obsession. You need a case to occupy your time otherwise you get bored, and slip into bouts of depression until something that ignites your spark comes along. During these times you become distant, aloof, rude, maybe even cruel if the mood persists long enough. You live an isolated life, a lonely life, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything, because what else is someone as smart as you supposed to do with themselves? So you immerse yourself in your work, pushing and driving yourself in an effort to stave off the loneliness and depression, constantly teetering between not caring how others perceive you, and being pathetically desperate for acknowledgment and praise”.

 

“That’s enough!” I shouted. The man circling Basil may have been able to discern many things about him, and I could not deny that it was all true, but this man didn’t _know_ Basil, not the way I did. He had not seen Basil in his element, and so had no place criticising my friend.

 

I marched right up to The Black Arrow to give him a piece of my mind. Poking a finger at my opponent’s chest, unheeding of any danger from him, I began to rage, “How dare you. _How dare you!_ Basil is an upstanding, respectable citizen who helps people. You too have a brilliant mind, and you use it to brutalize criminals. I dare say that you are barely better than they are! You hooligan, you ruffian!  You have no right, _no right_ , to pass judgement!”

 

Stunned, The Black Arrow stared down at me a tad wide-eyed with an expression that suggested he was surprised by my outburst, but not so much by its content. He quickly recovered, however. Narrowing his eyes, he leaned down so he and I were at eye level.

 

“What your friend does is perform a service for a fee, and who does that really help besides those with the coin to pay it? If he wanted to ‘help’ people, he could have become a scientist and made discoveries about the universe, or become a doctor and made advancements in medicine, but he dedicates most of his time to trivial matters like finding lost jewelry for rich, vapid women. We all have our failings,” he straightened his posture with a scathing gaze at both Basil and me, “I think it’s time for you to leave”.

 

“Now, why would we do that?” asked Basil. “We were just getting star--”

 

Basil never got to finish his sentence, for at that moment we heard Inspector Pine’s voice in the distance shouting at his team of constables, who had finally arrived to offer us back up.

 

“In here!” Basil called. The Black Arrow jerked his head to look at us with an expression that was mixed with confusion and, to my surprise, fear.

 

“Yes, they are here to arrest you,” Basil confirmed with a smug grin. “Mr. Hawthorne didn’t appreciate the beating you gave him, and is pressing assault and battery charges against you”.

 

The vigilante frowned at this news, and then he insulted Mr. Hawthorne in a way that conservatism and good manners dictate I not repeat here.

 

“It would be in your best interest if you cooperated,” I urged, not wanting this to get any messier than it had to.

 

“You lied to me,” The Black Arrow said, sounding stunned, betrayed, and a tad impressed all at once. Looking back in the direction of the oncoming sounds of Pine and the other police officers, The Black Arrow considered his options for a moment, and uttered a flippant “Well then”.

 

Before either of us could do anything, he leaned back, and with the sole of his boot, kicked Basil right in the solar plexus. Basil stumbled backwards, then landed flat on his back, knocking the wind right out of his lungs.

 

“Oh, dear,” The Black Arrow said airily, his expression wholly unconcerned, “I believe that man needs medical attention”.

 

And then he dashed off in the direction he had originally come, toward another concealed door in the far wall that I could only assume led outside. I momentarily entertained the idea of following him, but the sound of Basil gasping for air as he regained his breath stopped me. I rushed over to check on my friend, who was curled in on himself in pain.

 

“Basil, you need to take slow, deep breaths. Come on, there’s a good chap,” I soothed. Within a few moments, Basil’s breathing become more even and calm as his diaphragm ceased spasming. With my help, he stood up and dusted himself off just as Pine was approaching us.

 

“Well, where is he?” Pine demanded. Upon seeing how shaken Basil was, added, “What happened to you?”

 

“He got away. Kicked Basil in the chest before doing a bunk,” I explained and pointed to where The Black Arrow had fled, “he went that way, if you want your men to see if they can figure out what became of him”.

 

Pine let out a sharp whistle, and gestured to three nearby constables to go where I had indicated. He then instructed the remaining officers to collect The Black Arrow’s belongings, from the news articles on the wall to the lead pipe still laying by its lonesome on the floor by the linotype machines, and they obediently complied.

 

“It took you long enough to get here, Pine,” Basil groused once he completed righting himself. “The fiend was just about to have us leave”.

 

Pine only glared in reply, not being able to deny that it had indeed taken him a long time to arrive at The Black Arrow’s hideout, “Why don’t you explain to me what exactly happened”.

 

So we did. Basil recounted to the inspector how he discovered where the vigilante was hiding and all the events leading up to The Black Arrow’s escape. Pine jotted down Basil’s statement in his little notebook, nodding and humming where appropriate in Basil’s story.

 

“An American? This bloke keeps getting more and more interesting. It’s too bad you let him get away,” Pine said when Basil finished. “I have a feeling finding him again is going to prove most difficult”.

 

Basil scowled at the inspector, “I didn’t _let_ him do anything, but you’re right. He knows we’re after him, and is going to take extra care in not being found”.

 

“Any idea where he might go?” questioned Pine.

 

“None,” Basil replied dejectedly.

 

“He was keeping track of a few people. There might be some clues in his records,” I said.

 

“Perhaps. All the more reason to get it all back to headquarters as quickly as possible,” Pine replied.

 

“Um, excuse me?” came a timid voice. It was one of the constables, a short, tawny mouse whom I had seen around Scotland Yard, but whose name I didn’t know.

 

“Yes, Dalton, what is it?” Pine asked the constable irritably.

 

“Well, sir, it ,um, seems there’s no sign of The Black Arrow, sir”.

 

Pine looked up sharply at Dalton, who visibly winced, “You interrupted me to tell me that?”

 

“I’m sorry, sir!” Dalton exclaimed, fidgeting where he stood, “I did find something though, on the ground outside. I think it might belong to The Black Arrow! Here!” he opened his hand at Pine, who snatched whatever it was.

 

“What is it, Pine?” Basil asked in interest, trying to get a look.

 

“I’m,” Pine’s brows knit together in thought, “I’m not sure. Here. What do you make of it?”

 

Pine held out the object for Basil. Upon taking it, I could see that it was a necklace. The silver was tarnished to black, but, the pendant, however, was far more noteworthy. At first glance, it wouldn’t be hard to mistake it for something abstract, but to a trained eye, it was clear what the pendant had been fashioned to look like.

 

“Those look like antlers,” I observed.

 

“Yes,” Basil agreed, “stag antlers, if I’m not mistaken”.

 

“Dalton, what makes you think this belongs to our suspect?” Pine asked.

 

“I-i-it was just laying in the middle of the alley. Seems like a strange place for a necklace, if you ask me,” Dalton answered.

 

“Basil, what do you think is the significance?” I asked my friend.

 

Basil gazed down at the necklace with a thoughtful look, “I don’t know, Dawson, I--” a look of dawning realization suddenly passed over Basil’s face. He grabbed my arm and pulled me along back the way we had come in, completely oblivious to Pine’s protests. We rushed back to Toby, waiting a block away from the printery.

 

“What is it, Basil? Where are we going?” I asked, wondering what on earth had come over him.

 

“To the post office,” Basil answered without elaborating.

 

“What for?”

 

“I am going to send a telegram to St. Vincent’s in Baltimore. We may learn the identity of The Black Arrow before the day is over!

 

After giving instructions to Toby, we were off. At the post office, Basil composed his telegram, giving a description of The Black Arrow and asking for any information. When he was done, he paid the clerk, and then we left.

 

Now, the only thing we could do was wait for an answer.

 

We went back to our flat in the meantime. I was content with reading to pass the time, but Basil was far too agitated to stay still for that long. He paced all around the sitting room, The Black Arrow’s letter in one hand and the stag necklace in the other, mumbling under his breath about “who The Black Arrow is now”.

 

A reply didn’t come until several hours later. Basil had been so lost in thought he nearly jumped out of his fur when there was a knock on the door, but he quickly answered it and tipped the delivery boy. He dashed back to his armchair and tore open the envelope, a triumphant gleam growing in his eyes.

 

“A-ha! I knew it! Here, Dawson, read it”.

 

I took the telegram from his hand, fishing in my pocket for my glasses. Once I got them in place, I began to read:

 

DETECTIVE BASIL

 

ONLY MOUSE MATCHING YOUR DESCRIPTION WAS A GIRL PUP WE NAMED URSULA ST VINCENT STOP WAS ADOPTED AT AGE TWELVE BY PROF JAMES FLETCHER AND WIFE EDITH OF NOTRE DAME OF MARYLAND STOP CHANGED HER FIRST NAME TO ARTEMIS STOP LETTER OF EXPLANATION TO FOLLOW

 

SISTER BERNADETTE

 

Suddenly it all made sense: the soft face, the higher pitched voice, that smug look when The Black Arrow revealed their face to us and we didn’t notice a thing.

 

It was a good thing my armchair was behind me, because I was so shocked, my legs gave out from under me.

 

_Girl pup._

 

_Artemis Fletcher._

 

The Black Arrow was a _woman_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun! Now we know who The Black Arrow is!
> 
> The next chapter is when things go from 0-100 and take a dark turn


	5. Chapter 5

The wait for Sister Bernadette’s letter telling us more about The Black Arrow, or rather,  _ Miss  _ Artemis Fletcher, was agonizing, especially for Basil. For the first week, he was more agitated than he normally was, and became so snappish that I, not wanting to be on the receiving end of his short temper, took to avoiding him. It was quite a stroke of convenience that I had a string of house calls during that time, otherwise being in Basil’s company would have been unbearable.

 

The weather gradually became warmer as summer rolled around, bringing with it slightly more sunshine and longer days, though this did nothing to alleviate the tension in our home. The anniversary of Ratigan’s demise occurred the following week. I didn’t notice until I realized Basil had not come out of his room all day and I checked the date on that day’s newspaper. I went upstairs to check if he was all right, but he did not answer his bedroom door when I knocked. I decided the best thing to do was to just leave him be, and go about my business until he came out of his melancholy on his own.

 

In the interim, the newspapers were filled with articles about The Black Arrow. Some were speculations about who the man was (oh, if they only knew!), but most were about recent incidents of Miss Fletcher bringing down more criminals. It seemed the events at the printery did nothing to deter the woman from her cause. I was still reeling from the revelation that the person who had London in a tizzy, the person who brought people who hurt children to justice with such violent efficiency was, in fact, a woman. In hindsight, it made sense. The Greek goddess for which I was sure Miss Fletcher was named was a protector of children, which explained why all her victims were victimizers of children. The rage she brought upon those men was certainly reminiscent of a Greek god. When I expressed my surprise to Basil (before his mood had deteriorated) that a woman could be filled with so much rage, he said like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “Rage? Of course women have that”. There was one positive outcome of Miss Fletcher’s presence in London: criminal activity of all kinds had decreased immensely. People were too afraid of encountering The Black Arrow to risk committing a crime. Not that I agreed with Miss Fletcher’s methods, but she was making the good folk of London feel safer, and to me, that did count for something.

 

Pine visited from time to time, every few days or so, to keep us up to date on new evidence The Black Arrow left and to ask us about any breakthroughs. Strangely, Basil failed to divulge Miss Fletcher’s identity, only telling Pine that we were following a lead and would tell him if anything came of it. When I asked Basil about it, he told me (rather impatiently) that if Pine knew who The Black Arrow was, he wouldn’t be able to  _ do  _ anything with that information, so what was the point in telling him until we ourselves knew more? Instead of arguing that Pine was part of this investigation too and had a right to know what we had discovered, I stormed off to my room, asking Mrs. Judson to bring me a pot of a tea when she had a moment. Later that night, Basil knocked on my door wanting to talk. He apologized for his behavior over the last two weeks, telling me that what Miss Fletcher had said about him had gotten under his fur, and he knew she was right. I did my best to comfort him, telling him that while he had his faults, and he had many, he was a good mouse who worked tirelessly in pursuit of justice. The words of a dangerous vigilante shouldn't affect him so. Basil’s reply was a simple thank you, and he took his leave of my room. His mood went back to a more pleasant level after that. 

 

Finally, at the end of the month, marking just over three weeks of waiting and wondering, we received a large envelope from Sister Bernadette with the afternoon post . Basil opened it eagerly with all the vigor of an excited child on Christmas. Once the letter was out, Basil flipped through the sheets, as there were many, and his expression turned perplexed.

 

“What is it, Basil?” I questioned.

 

“Dawson, there are two letters here. One is from Sister Bernadette, obviously, and the other,” his eyes darted down to the bottom of the letter before widening ever so slightly, “is from Miss Fletcher’s adoptive father, Professor Fletcher”.

 

He quickly skimmed through Sister Bernadette’s letter before handing it off to me and reading Professor Fletcher’s. I have to say, both letters gave us quite the insight into Miss Fletcher’s life, shedding new light on who she was as a young girl. I have included the contents of both letters below. Sister Bernadette’s is first, followed by Professor Fletcher’s:

 

_ Dear Detective Basil, _

 

_ I pray this letter finds you well. I must admit I was surprised when I received your telegram, but I knew Ursula was the mouse you were looking for the moment I read the description. We discovered her on October 21, 1875. An English protestant like yourself most likely doesn’t know, but this is the feast day of Saint Ursula, who is a patron saint of orphans. It seemed appropriate, so that is what we named her. That girl had the devil in her from the start. Far too clever for her own good, and just as disobedient; so much so that if I or the other sisters managed to get her to listen to a command we considered it a miracle from the Lord. We tried to instill good Catholic values in Ursula and mold her into a prim and proper young lady, just as we do with all the girls who come through our doors, but she would have none of it. Boys come through this orphanage as well, and Ursula would frequently attack the ones who teased her and the other children, especially the younger ones. She never wanted to wear dresses, never wanted to sit still and be quiet, never had an interest in modesty or grace or any feminine qualities. Her favorite pass time was skipping her lessons, donning trousers and shirts meant for boys, and whiling away the hours in the Baltimore city library reading books about subjects no young lady has any business knowing about, like science and law. Any attempts to alter her behavior were in vain, including regular beatings, but any punishment we doled out upon her only seemed to make her more determined to rebel. This continued up until the day she was adopted. Imagine our surprise when Professor Fletcher and his wife, Edith, a well-to-do couple, came in from one of the universities looking to adopt, and chose Ursula of all people. We warned them that she was a difficult child, and told them that there were plenty of better behaved children they could make part of their family, but they saw something in Ursula that we here at the orphanage did not, so they took her home that day. That was in March of 1888. We never heard from her again after that. _

 

_ I am afraid that I must admit, if Ursula is in trouble with the law, I am not the least bit surprised. May the Lord forgive me for thinking ill of another. That girl always had a blatant disregard for how society operates, and this came as no shock to any of us here at St. Vincent’s. I do find it odd that she is in trouble overseas, as I have no idea what business she would have in a place as far away as London. That is why I contacted Professor Fletcher. I told him about your telegram asking for information about Ursula. He informed me that she had changed her name to Artemis during the adoption process, and that he would compose his own letter to you right away. I’m hoping that both my letter and his give you what you need and that you can locate Ursula (or whatever she’s calling herself now). The sooner you can get that girl away from polite society, the better. _

 

_ May God be with you in this endeavor. I pray you succeed with all haste. _

 

_ In Christ, _

_ Sister Bernadette _

 

* * *

 

_ Detective, _

 

_ My name is Professor James Fletcher, and I teach Ancient Civilizations at Notre Dame of Maryland University in Baltimore. I am writing this letter to you at the request of Sister Bernadette of St. Vincent’s Infant Asylum. It comes as quite a shock that a detective in London is interested in my daughter and wants to know more about her, as Sister Bernadette informed me when she showed up at my living quarters to show me your telegram. Truth be told, I’m not sure where to start. You weren’t specific in your telegram. I suppose the beginning would be best. _

 

_ My wife, Edith, and I adopted our daughter, Artemis, on March 7, 1888. Why did we adopt? Well, you see, Edith and I are an interspecies couple: I am an Eastern woodrat and she an Eastern chipmunk, and so it is impossible for us to have biological children of our own. We had been married for some time, and enjoyed our time spent as “just us”, but it was always our dream to be parents one day. When we walked into St. Vincent’s, and all the children were presented to us, Artemis (or perhaps I should refer to her as Ursula, since that was still her name at that point) stood out from the rest. She was the only black mouse there, and taller than most of the other children. But what really caught my attention were her eyes, not just because of their unusual color, but because of the way she was looking at my wife and I: so intensely curious, like if she stared at us long enough she could discover our deepest secrets. I knew I had to speak to her, so I walked up to her and introduced myself. She seemed interested in my profession, and surprised me by asking who I felt was in the right during the Trojan War in Greek mythology. Can you believe that? Most of the students I teach don’t even think to ponder such a thing! And this twelve-year-old girl is asking my opinion on the matter. I told her both sides had valid points in their reasoning, and if it had been clear on right versus wrong, there wouldn’t have been a war to begin with. She smiled and said I was right. It was strange. There I was, presented with a group of children to pick out which one I wanted to raise with my wife, and this child had made me feel like  _ I  _ had just passed some sort of test. It was then that I knew she was the child for us. Edith had her doubts. She thought something about Ursula was off-putting, but didn’t know in what way, but I had already made up my mind. Have you ever met someone, and just knew in your heart that they were meant to be in your life? That was how I felt about Ursula, and I told Sister Bernadette that I wanted to fill out the paperwork immediately. While doing so, there is a section to put the child’s new name, and Ursula asked if she could change her first name as well as her last. I asked why, and she said she never felt like an Ursula and never cared for the name all that much. So I asked what name she wanted. After thinking about it for a few moments, she said she had been reading a lot about Greek mythology and her favorite Olympian was Artemis. I agreed, so her name was changed from Ursula St. Vincent to Artemis Fletcher, though the former she kept as a middle name at Edith’s suggestion. We took her back home with us to our apartment at Notre Dame that same day. _

 

_ Before the adoption process was underway, Sister Bernadette tried to sway us from adopting Artie, warning us that she was some sort of unbreakable devil child, but I can tell you that she thrived in our care. I don’t think there could have been a better environment for my daughter than a university. Despite the social limitations placed upon her because of her sex, Artie managed to charm several professors into not only allowing her to attend their lectures, but also to participate in them, effectively demonstrating her superior intelligence to those around her. Needless to say, she wasn’t very popular with the attending students, who felt her place was not in their classroom, but any attempts to intimidate or discourage her were unsuccessful. Artie has never had a problem defending herself in any capacity. She’s a driven woman, and once she decides that she wants something, there is no stopping her. Some might say that, as her father, I should have snuffed out this behavior in her, but I disagree. I feel that my role as a parent is to foster and nurture my child’s passions, and teach her right from wrong, not suffocate everything that makes her special.  Artie is bright, witty, perceptive, clever, and kind. Her mother and I genuinely like the person that she is, and we don’t think she needs to change. _

 

_ That isn’t to say that things were perfect in our household. My daughter has many positive qualities, but she has her fair share of shortcomings: she’s stubborn, sarcastic, impatient, cunning, combative, short-tempered. I could go on. Discipling her proved difficult. Corporal punishment didn’t work (we only tried it once. I could write a whole letter about that incident on its own. For brevity, I will tell you there is still a dent in our living room wall that Edith cringes at whenever she sees it). After much trial and error, we found that the most successful method of correcting her behavior was to get to the root of the problem, logically explain why her actions were wrong, and lay out a reasonable course of action for her to follow should the circumstances present themselves again. An example I can give is during her mid-teens, she kept getting into fights with the students. She’d come home with black eyes and bloody noses all the time. We tried taking privileges away from her and restricting when she could go out, but the fighting didn’t stop. In exasperation, I asked her why she couldn’t just walk away, and, hesitatingly, she admitted that some of my students had been bad-mouthing mine and Edith’s marriage, about how unnatural it was. Artemis had been  _ defending  _ us. Touched as we were, causing harm to others was unacceptable. We told her that it was natural to be angry when someone you love is insulted by someone who doesn’t understand, but if a student or faculty or anyone said anything offensive about our family again, to come to us, and we would take care of it. Artemis didn’t get into another fight for a long time after that. _

 

_ Alas, Artie’s fighting days weren’t at a complete end. On the day of her 18th birthday in 1893, Edith and I were summoned to the dean’s office. To our utter horror, we found out that Artie had gotten into a fight with the dean’s son, Henry Duvall, and roughed him up quite badly. She’d broken his nose, dislocated his shoulder, and knocked out three of his teeth. Artie hadn’t come away uninjured; the left side of her face was a swollen, bloody mess. Neither of them spoke a word about what happened. The dean, of course, was furious, and demanded that Artie be “dealt with” or I would be “dealt with”, tenure be damned. We dragged our daughter back to our apartment and demanded to know what happened. The story she told us was that she had been leaving one of Professor Doppler’s astronomy lectures, when Henry unexpectedly pulled her into an empty classroom. Something you need to understand before I go further is that Artemis and Henry are about the same age, and Henry has been infatuated with my daughter since the day he met her. Artie was uninterested, caring more for her education than her relationships. But, it seemed, Henry would take her rejection no longer, and tried to strong-arm her into courting him. When she again refused him, he attacked her, resulting in the injuries to her face. She insisted that what she did to him was in self defense. I questioned how she even learned to do that in the first place, and she said that she befriended the Japanese History professor, a Japanese dormouse named Ren Saito, and he had agreed to teach her jujitsu, a martial art in which he had extensive training. Artie said she thought it would be a better outlet for her anger than fighting other people. I have to say, if there was ever a time I was glad my daughter knew how to fight, it was then, but there was still the matter of the dean, who we knew wouldn’t punish his own son for the incident. We were quite lost on what to do. _

 

_ The answer came the next morning while Artie was reading the newspaper. There was an ad requesting a governess for three young girls located in Glasgow, Scotland. Their father, Lord Baron Brody McGregor, was looking for a highly educated woman to look after his daughters, and Artie felt like it was a perfect solution for our troubles. Many people are surprised to learn this, but Artie is excellent with children. She always seems to know how to handle them, and they adore her. They practically flock to her. Artie spent many a day looking after the younger children of the university’s professors when she wasn’t studying. I suspect that’s partly how she convinced them to allow her in their lectures. But, really, Glasgow? It seemed so far away. But Artie pointed out that there weren’t any alternatives available to us, and she didn’t want me paying for her mistake. Edith and I discussed it, and we came to the conclusion maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea. Artie would be “dealt with” in a way that would satisfy the dean, and Artie would get to travel and experience something new. My wife and I also hoped that this would make Artie mature a bit and teach her some responsibility. So, we told Artie she could go. She just smiled and said good, because the newspaper she’d shown us was an old one. She had sent a resume weeks ago and had already received an acceptance letter. Honestly, Edith and I weren’t surprised. _

 

_ She left early November of 1893. At first we received regular letters from her. Things were going well. Lord McGregor’s daughters liked Artie, and she in turn was quite fond of them. She liked the baron, his wife, and the other staff members well enough, but mentioned everyone in the house acted strangely. She assumed it was a cultural difference. Two years into her employment, we stopped hearing from her. We tried sending letters, but they were all returned. It’s been over three years since Artie’s last letter, and Edith and I feared the worst, until Sister Bernadette showed up, though, truthfully, I can’t say your telegram eased our fears. _

 

_ Detective Basil, I am entreating you as a father scared for his daughter, if Artemis is in trouble, I am begging you to do whatever you can to help her. I love my daughter more than anything in this world, and I don’t want anything bad happening to her. She may not be my flesh and blood, but there are some bonds that go deeper than that. Even if she is the instigator in whatever you’re investigating, there is reason and logic and purpose behind everything she does, and I ask that you bear that in mind when dealing with her. If and when you find her, please alert me. It has been so long since we heard from her, and would put my mind at ease to know that she is in safe hands. _

 

_ I hope that what I have written here helps you, and that you find my daughter as soon as possible. _

 

_ Sincerely, _

_ Prof. James Fletcher _

  
  


Both Basil and I sat in silence long after we finished reading the letters to mull over their contents. It was clear that something catastrophic must have happened in Glasgow if Miss Fletcher was here in London brutalizing criminals instead of in Scotland taking care of three little girls.

 

“Dawson, do you know who Lord McGregor was?” Basil asked.

 

My friend’s use of the past tense brought my thoughts back to the present, “Was? I’m afraid I can’t say that I do”.

 

“I didn’t think so. You were serving in Afghanistan when it happened and probably never heard about it”.

 

“Heard about what, Basil? Stop speaking so cryptically,” I chided.

 

Basil was holding Professor Fletcher’s letter, gazing at it contemplatively, “Brody McGregor was an influential person in the Scottish nobility,” he looked up to meet my eyes, “he’s dead, Dawson, and so is his family”.

 

My mouth fell open in shock, “Wh--what? How?”

 

“An apparent murder-suicide. It happened at the time Professor Fletcher says he stopped hearing from his daughter. I’m afraid I don’t know too much about it. The news coverage of the incident was superficial at best. But to hear the vigilante we have been after was once employed by the baron is interesting indeed”.

 

“Basil,” I said, greatly disturbed by this information, “you don’t think Miss Fletcher is responsible for their deaths, do you?”

 

My friend stroked his chin in thought, “I don’t think so, Doctor. I think if she had, she would have disappeared, never to be heard from again. But she’s dedicating herself to defending children from those who want to hurt them. That doesn’t make sense if she killed a whole family”.

 

“Atoning out of remorse, perhaps?” I suggested.

 

Basil hummed in thought, “No. A person may feel remorse if they kill one person, but someone who goes through the effort of killing an entire family isn’t the type to feel remorseful about it. Something else is going on here”.

 

“What do you suggest we do next?”

 

“Wait here,” Basil said, standing up from the armchair and walking over to the coat tree, “it just so happens that I know someone in the Glasgow police force. I’m going to send him a telegram. See if he knows anything”. He threw on his coat and Inverness, and was out the door before I could protest.

 

I could only hope a reply reached us in a more timely fashion than Sister Bernadette’s.

 

Mercifully, we heard back from Basil’s police friend a few days later. He’d sent us a package containing official police statements and, surprisingly, a journal penned by Miss Fletcher herself detailing her time in Lord McGregor’s employ. I decided to go through the journal, leaving Basil to enthusiastically dive into the police documents, eager to get to the root of the mystery.

 

The truth, we discovered, was so much more horrific than we ever thought possible.

 

Miss Fletcher did indeed leave for Glasgow on November 3, 1893, and arrived sometime in mid-December. The girls she was hired to look after, Regina, Katherine, and Joanna, took to her immediately, and to Miss Fletcher, the feeling was mutual. The three sisters were bright, sweet, and well-behaved, but Miss Fletcher noticed they were quite skittish around their father and the butler, and very reserved around their mother, Lady Baroness Agnes McGregor. Everyone else on the staff, she observed, acted a little odd. They weren’t particularly welcoming or friendly, and many of them were very sneaky and secretive. When Miss Fletcher asked about it, she was told not to worry about it. She came to the conclusion that’s just how Scots are.

 

This went on for months, and the girls kept getting more and more withdrawn and depressed. Then, eight months into her stay, she discovered why everyone was acting the way they were. I dare not say it too plainly here, only that Miss Fletcher found out that Lord McGregor was abusing his daughters in the worst way possible, and allowing the butler to join in. She made the discovery after accidentally walking in on the two mice with Katherine, the middle daughter. Miss Fletcher confronted the baroness, desperate to know how a mother could abide her husband doing that to her children. The baroness, a timid woman of weak fortitude, feigned ignorance and continued to do nothing. Miss Fletcher’s journal entries at this point are sad and despairing. She wasn’t in a good position to do much of anything; removing the girls from the home at that time wasn’t a viable option, and neither was confronting the baron. Miss Fletcher resolved to gather as much evidence as she could, and document any incidences in hopes of being able to turn everything over to the authorities. In the meantime, she vowed to make the girls’ lives as pleasant as possible, a feat not easily accomplished, but it seemed she managed as best she could, and it was something the children appreciated. They showed their gratitude in the form of the necklace that was found at the printery. The girls had given it to Miss Fletcher as a birthday gift. It was something she deeply treasured, and served to motivate her further to get the children out of the household.

 

It took over a year to get everything she wanted into place. She’d collected a sufficient amount of evidence to go to the police; she’d convinced the baroness to leave with the children. They picked a day to enact their plan. That morning, however, Miss Fletcher came upon a disturbing and traumatizing sight. The McGregors lived in a human house, much the way Basil and I do, and it was inhabited by a cat, and armed with mousetraps. Everyone in the McGregor household knew not to go near either of those things. The morning Miss Fletcher was going to abscond with the girls and their mother, she found them missing from their rooms. Fearing the worst, Miss Fletcher ventured to the human part of the house where she discovered the baroness snapped in a mousetrap near the entryway. She alerted one of the staff members to call the police, and went further into the house, staying in the shadows to hide from the humans, cautiously making her way to where she knew the cat normally sleeps. As she suspected, the scene that met her when she found the feline was a grisly one indeed. There in the cat’s quarters were the mangled remains of the three little girls. To say that Miss Fletcher was traumatized and devastated would be a vast understatement. 

 

The last entry in Miss Fletcher’s journal was written the day of the funeral for the baroness and the children. I have included it below:

 

_ Gina, Kathy, and Jo, along with Lady McGregor, were laid to rest today at the Necropolis. I couldn’t begin to tell you who attended, or what the weather was like, or even at what plots their graves are located. Too deep was my grief. This event has affected me more profoundly than anything in my life up to now, and I don’t think anything will ever drown out the cacophony of this loss. I truly believe that something within me withered and died along with my girls, and is now buried with them. May God forgive me for not being able to save them. _

 

It only got worse when Basil handed me the police documents. According to the statements, Lord McGregor summoned Miss Fletcher to his study the evening after the funeral. He admitted to Miss Fletcher that it was he who killed his family. Lady McGregor had come to him the night before her death and revealed the plan to leave, telling him that he would never be able to hurt their daughters ever again. Fearing for his reputation, he enacted his own plan to dispose of them and make it look like an accident. Consumed with rage over Miss Fletcher’s part in what had transpired, he set in motion the final part of his plan to dispatch her. He produced a gun, and a struggle ensued between them. As they fought for control of the gun, it went off, mortally wounding Lord McGregor, leaving Miss Fletcher with a literal smoking gun in her hand. The police had to be called again, and to clear her name of any wrongdoing, Miss Fletcher explained what happened and presented the evidence she had collected about Lord McGregor’s illicit activities with his daughters. The police didn’t believe her at first, but the evidence was overwhelming. A few brave staff members, free of Lord McGregor’s intimidating influence, confirmed Miss Fletcher’s story, and so she wasn’t charged with any crime.

 

I didn’t have the heart to read what was left of the report.

 

Basil was still reading through Miss Fletcher’s journal (there was more of it than there was of the police reports), so while I waited for him to finish, I went into the kitchen and asked Mrs. Judson to put the kettle on. A good, hot cup of tea was just what we needed to soothe our frazzled nerves.

 

“You know, Basil, when we first started this case, I never thought things would turn out this way,” I said when I returned to my armchair.

 

“Nor did I, Doctor,” replied Basil. To an untrained ear, his tone would have sounded neutral, but I knew better. My friend may have attempted to maintain some level of emotional detachment when investigating a case, but there are some atrocities in this world that one can’t help but be affected by, and this affected Basil. I could see it in the rigid way he was sitting, and how there was no longer a manic gleam in his eyes. There was a sadness in him, just as there was in me.

 

“What I still don’t understand is why Miss Fletcher is in London,” I mused. “After what she endured, you would think she would have gone home”.

 

Basil’s gaze met mine, studying me for a moment before flicking his eyes to the police documents on the little side table next to my chair, and then meeting mine once again, “She’s after the butler,” he said simply.

 

“The butler? I thought they would have arrested him, considering his part in everything”.

 

Sighing, Basil said, “If you’d finished reading the report, you’d know that he absconded between Lord McGregor getting shot and the police arriving”.

 

I scowled at my friend and picked up the report. Of course, the last bit I had skipped over outlined the butler’s escape. Looking at his name, I narrowed my eyes.

 

“Dougal Campbell? Why does that name sound familiar?”

 

“His name and information were on the wall in Miss Fletcher’s hideout, remember? It said she suspected him of trafficking, but I think she’s following him to dole out revenge,” he rested his chin in his hand, and a look of deep contemplation passed over his face. It must have been a testament to our time spent together, because I immediately knew where his train of thought was going.

 

“You think Miss Fletcher intentionally shot the baron”.

 

“She had every reason to,” Basil asserted, “Lord McGregor killed his wife and daughters; they were people Miss Fletcher clearly cared deeply for. Add to that, we have testimonials from those who raised her that she had fight in her from a young age that she channeled into defending others. I don’t think it’s much of a stretch to believe that in her grief and rage, she was capable of murder. You must admit, Dawson, the notion is more plausible than the gun happening to accidentally go off”.

 

“There’s no way to know for sure, though,” I pointed out. “Any proof is long gone by now, and I doubt Miss Fletcher would be willing to tell us what really happened, assuming we can find her again, that is”.

 

“Yes. That will be a trick, won’t it? She knows we’re looking for her now, and will be more cautious to avoid being found. But fear not, Dawson! If we could locate her once, we can do it again,” Basil looked down at the journal in his lap and then over at the police reports on my side table, “Come, Dawson, let’s get these things packed up. They belong with the Glasgow police, and I’m sure they’ll want their evidence back posthaste”.

 

Basil walked over to the bureau and procured an empty parcel from one of the drawers. As he came back to his chair, he stopped suddenly in his tracks looking most perplexed.

 

“Did you hear that?” he asked, turning his head toward the door.

 

I had no idea what he was talking about, having heard nothing, and told him so. “It’s probably nothing”.

 

My friend did not seem convinced. He mumbled, “I’m certain I heard--” and then I heard it too. Voices, or rather, laughter, villainous and gruff, and what sounded like scuffling outside.

 

In a flash, Basil dashed for the door. I quickly rose to follow him, fearing what the blackguards would do if he confronted them by himself. 

 

I had reached the steps that lead to the door when I heard Basil shout, “Dawson! Get out here at once!”

 

The stricken tone of his voice made me move double-time out the door and onto the open sidewalk. It was nearly dark, and no humans were about to notice our presence. I found Basil kneeling beside the prone form of a mouse. My heart skipped a beat when I realized who it was. Black clothes and black fur. It wasn’t difficult to identify Miss Fletcher as the one lying unconscious in front of our flat. The soft glow of the streetlamp failed to provide enough light for me to get a proper look, but I could see that her right cheek was swollen, and the fur on her face and neck was wet with what I could only assume was blood.

 

“Those scoundrels must have beaten her and then carried her here. But why?” Basil wondered angrily while I checked Miss Fletcher for further injuries. In the dim light, my hand found a wet tear in her jumper below her ribcage, and I could only make a small groan of worry when my hand came back drenched in an alarming amount of Miss Fletcher’s blood.

 

“Nevermind why!” I shouted at Basil. “Help me get her inside.  _ Now! _ ” In that moment I was no longer Doctor David Dawson; I was Major David Q. Dawson, doctor in the queen’s sixty-sixth regiment, and there would be negative repercussions for Miss Fletcher if I didn’t treat her immediately.

 

Together, Basil and I lifted Miss Fletcher carefully, trying not to jostle her too much as we carried back inside.

  
_ Poor child,  _ I thought as I looked at her battered face.  _ What on earth happened to you? _


	6. Chapter 6

Things happened quickly once Basil and I got Miss Fletcher inside. We sat her gingerly on the sofa; Basil removed her heavy wool coat while I retrieved my medical bag. Miss Fletcher groaned painfully as Basil assisted her, which I took as a positive sign. The sooner she regained consciousness, the better, especially if she had any head injuries.

“We’ll have to remove her jumper as well. She has a wound in her side that needs tending to,” I said.

“I don’t think I can do that without aggravating her injuries,” replied Basil uncertainly.

I spotted a solution on Basil’s work table, “Hand me those shears. I’ll have to cut it off of her”.

He did as I instructed, and I sat down on the ottoman of Basil’s armchair so I could begin working. I snipped her jumper from hem to neckline. Basil removed it, and together we laid her down. It was at that moment Mrs. Judson decided to make an appearance. Bursting forth from the kitchen, she was carrying a tray of tea and cheese crumpets for us, completely oblivious to what was going on right in front of her. After setting down the tray and turning to face us, the expression on her face shifted from jovial to confused to horrified realization to thoroughly irritated. It would have been almost comical if not for the dire circumstances.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “Is that The Black Arrow? The one I’ve been reading about in the papers? Why is he in my sitting room bleeding on my sofa? Mr. Basil, if you’ve done something--”

“I assure you, madame, this time I have done nothing,” replied Basil with a sniff, “but this mouse has been injured, and needs help”.

I noted the neutral way Basil spoke of Miss Fletcher, and wondered why he continued to keep her sex a secret from everyone except me. I also found it odd that Mrs. Judson failed to notice that the topless mouse lying on our sofa was female. But, after thinking about it, Miss Fletcher only had the barest hint of a feminine body, a combination of her spartan lifestyle and androgynous inclinations. I suppose it really wasn’t difficult to mistake her for a man if you weren’t looking too closely.

There was a beat of silence from our landlady, then, “What do you need me to do?”

“Boil some water and add salt to it. I’d say about a quarter cup or so if you’re going to boil the water in the kettle. And bring me some clean towels,” I said. Being no stranger to the dangers and quirks of our profession, Mrs. Judson did not protest or argue further; she leveled a stern look at Basil and me, and marched back to the kitchen. While waiting for her to return, I started to examine the laceration in Miss Fletcher’s side. Blood matted the fur surrounding the area, and the wound was still seeping. I prayed that Mrs. Judson would hurry. The risk of Miss Fletcher contracting an infection was getting higher by the moment, but until the water was boiled and then cooled enough to use, there wasn’t much I could do besides continue my examination.

Looking at the wound, I noticed something odd, but would need a better look to confirm my suspicion, “Basil, may I borrow your magnifying glass for a moment? And do bring me a lamp. I need more light”.

“Yes, of course”. Basil immediately handed me the magnifier that he kept on his person at all times. It took only a moment for him to grab the lamp off his side table.

“Oh, dear,” I said once I made my diagnosis.

“What is it, Dawson?” inquired Basil.

“When I first discovered this wound, I thought it was a laceration, but that’s only partially true. See here?” I pointed to one side of the cut. “This part was punctured. It’s quite shallow, but the tissue is damaged differently than the rest”.

“Someone tried to stab her,” Basil deduced, “but they failed to follow through”.

“That’s because I turned at the last moment,” said a voice that belonged to neither Basil nor myself.

“Miss Fletcher!” I exclaimed. “It’s good to see you awake! How are you feeling?”

From her prone position on the sofa, Miss Fletcher shot me the most incredulous look, “Oh, spectacular,” she spat sarcastically. “I only feel like I’m going to vomit up my ribcage. Thank you for asking”.

Basil tutted, “Now, now, Miss Fletcher, mind your tone. You are in our custody, and I would advise you not to dig yourself deeper into trouble than you already are”.

Surprisingly, she laughed, bitter sounding though it was, but the sound was abruptly cut short by another pained groan.

“Lie still,” I urged gently. “Mrs. Judson will be back shortly, and I’ll be able to stitch that cut closed. That should help the pain somewhat”.

Miss Fletcher shook her head, “The cut in my side isn’t the problem. I think one of my ribs is broken,” she lifted a hand to her torso to where the middle ribs are located. “It hurts to take a deep breath, and--ow--the area is very tender to the touch”.

I carefully pressed my fingers into the spot Miss Fletcher indicated, “Here?”

She nodded with a wince, “Yes”.

Prodding the surrounding area to make sure none of her other ribs were damaged, I asked, “Are there any other injuries I should know about?”

“Besides the puncture-cut and the broken rib, there’s nothing else I’m acutely aware of at the moment,” she answered.

“You have some minor cuts on your face, and your right cheekbone is swollen,” I informed her. Her hand reflexively went to her face, grimacing slightly when she felt the injured cheek.

The door to the kitchen opened, and out came Mrs. Judson carrying a large bowl of saltwater in her hands and clean towels tucked under her arm. Basil brought over my side table, and Mrs. Judson set down the bowl and handed me the towels.

“Is there anything else you need?” asked Mrs. Judson.

“I think that’ll do it for now, Mrs. Judson. Thank you,” I replied, and our landlady retreated back into the kitchen. I took one of the towels and dropped it into the saltwater; another I placed at Miss Fletcher’s side to catch excess water.

“Now, Miss Fletcher, I’m going to clean the wound in your side, and I’m going to use saltwater to do it. Brace yourself, this is going to sting,” I took the towel out of the water, and squeezed it over the wound. Miss Fletcher grunted, gripping the sofa for dear life, but stayed surprisingly still during the cleaning process.

“You’re being a very good patient, my dear. Most mice would be shouting and writhing about in agony,” I said, trying to put her at ease. She had been through an ordeal, and I couldn’t imagine she was happy to be in our home considering how our last encounter went, but Basil and I would do her no harm while she was here. I wanted to convey to her as best I could that she was safe here.

She gave me one of her signature appraising looks, “Yes, well, I have a high pain tolerance, Doctor. I know how to take a beating”.

“I think that’s your Catholicism at work,” I said with a wink.

Another laugh followed by a groan, “Right, all that guilt and self-flagellation strengthen character, or so the nuns used to tell me. I still have yet to see if it’s true or not ”.

“Well, I don’t know about all that nonsense, but I do know you do have a strong character,” I countered. “The things you have endured would have reduced men and women alike into a despondent mess”.

Miss Fletcher scoffed, “Don’t be mistaken, Doctor. I am still a despondent mess”.

“But you are still here, fighting for justice. Literally”.

“That’s because, even in the depths of despair, rage and spite can be powerful motivators”.

“And just who are you trying to spite, Miss Fletcher?” asked Basil, who was standing off to the side to let me work. Basil had some knowledge of medical theory, and, as he does, picked up on many things while watching me practice. But, being untrained, he knew better than to get in my way while I was tending to a patient.

“That’s my old diary over there,” Miss Fletcher said, pointing at the journal on the table next to Basil’s chair, “and it’s lying on top of what I’m assuming are the police reports from when my girls and the baron died. You saw my notes on the wall at the printery. Don’t be coy, hawkshaw, you know exactly who I’m after”.

Basil straightened his posture, caught off guard by her deductions, “Dougal Campbell,” he stated.

“Sick bastard,” Miss Fletcher mumbled. “I thought I had finally caught up to him. How wrong I was,” she smiled bitterly.

“Is he the one who did this to you?” Basil asked.

Miss Fletcher shook her head, “No, it was his a bunch of his flunkeys”.

Basil hummed in thought. He pulled his pipe out of his pocket, lit it, and began pacing around the room, “How many were there?”

“Five,” answered Miss Fletcher.

“How did you know they were employed by Mr. Campbell?”

“Basil, now is not the time for an interrogation,” I scolded as I glared at him. “Miss Fletcher has sustained serious injuries and shouldn’t be taxed. Can’t you at least wait until I’m finished?”

He stopped pacing and looked at me with wide eyes, “Of course, Dawson. Carry on”.

I nodded in satisfaction and returned my attention to my patient, “I have cleaned the cut in your side to the best of my ability, but now I need to staunch the bleeding before I stitch it up. That means I’ll need to press hard on your side”.

Miss Fletcher looked at me apprehensively, “So what you’re saying is that I need to brace myself again”.

“Exceptionally so”.

Taking a few deep breaths to prepare herself, she gave one nod and said, “Do it”.

I took the clean towel in my hand and placed it over the wound, and then I pressed the heel of my hand into her side. Miss Fletcher did cry out that time, but was still able to control herself enough to stay still.

“How long do you have to do this?” she gasped.

“Until the bleeding stops, I’m afraid. Anywhere from ten to twenty minutes,” I replied sympathetically.

In actuality, it took about fifteen minutes to stop the bleeding. I took my catgut surgical thread and needle out of a silver box I kept in a flannel pouch in my medical bag. Suturing the cut didn’t take long and was no trouble at all. If Miss Fletcher was lucky, there would hardly be any scarring.

“Well, Miss Fletcher, that ought to do it,” I said as I clipped the final stitch in her sutures. After putting the thread and needle away, I pulled out two bottles of medicine. “The final step we have to worry about is pain relief. I have liniment and morphine here, if you want it”.

She frowned at me, “I would think letting Scotland Yard know that you caught me would be the last step. When are you going to alert Inspector Pine? Or is he already waiting outside? That seems to be a tactic you two enjoy utilizing,” her words should have sounded sarcastic, but her tone was oddly...resigned.

“Miss Fletcher, forgive me for saying, but you seem alarmingly unconcerned about your current predicament,” commented Basil, once again standing at my side now that I was finished with my work.

Shrugging, she said, “I’m not stupid. I was wanted, and now I am caught. This is the end of the line for me. Three years of work for nothing because I let myself get ambushed by a bunch of thugs. It’s fitting, in a way. I’m sure the universe is having a good laugh at my expense.  
Now I’m off to jail, and Dougal goes free”.

“Not necessarily,” Basil said, causing both me and Miss Fletcher to jerk our gazes in his direction.

“I beg your pardon?” Miss Fletcher asked.

“Basil what are you on about?” I asked at the same time.

“Your notes at the printery said you suspect Mr. Campbell of trafficking,” said Basil as he began to pace again. “Trafficking what, exactly?”

Miss Fletcher narrowed her eyes at Basil, “What are you playing at?”

“I have questions for you, Miss Fletcher. If you answer them, perhaps Dawson and I can be of assistance to you”.

“‘Assistance’?” she laughed. “I neither want nor need your assistance”.

“Regardless of what you want, you have been brutally incapacitated while in pursuit of a criminal. In case it has escaped your notice, Miss Fletcher, you and I are on the same side. If you want to see Dougal Campbell face justice, you are going to need help”.

Miss Fletcher let out a long sigh. “And in exchange for your help, you want answers,” she said.

“I think it’s only fair”.

With another sigh, Miss Fletcher grumbled, “Fine. May I sit up? I’m tired of lying here”.

“As long as you’re careful about it,” I said. I offered to help her, but she declined. With great difficulty, she got herself into a sitting position, clutching her side the whole time.

“Here,” Basil said. He was holding one of his own white shirts out to Miss Fletcher that he had taken from the bureau. When she didn’t immediately accept it, looking at him with an unsure expression, he added, “I’m afraid Dawson and I ruined your jumper. I didn’t think you’d want to remain so...vulnerable in our company”.

Relenting, she took the shirt with a mumbled, “Thank you”. She struggled to put it on, but managed.

“Now, about Dougal Campbell--,” Basil began.

“He’s trafficking children,” Miss Fletcher cut in.

“Children? For what purpose?” I asked.

Arching a brow at me, Miss Fletcher replied darkly, “There are sick people in this world who will pay a pretty penny for pretty boys and girls to defile. Dougal supplies them”.

“Good God,” I uttered.

“How did you come to know this?” Basil asked.

“It’s a long story,” Miss Fletcher said.

“Then, pray, tell it, and please be as detailed as possible”.

So Miss Fletcher told us the story of what happened after the confrontation with Lord McGregor. Following the baron’s funeral, Miss Fletcher had planned to turn Mr. Campbell in, but found that he had fled Glasgow. Miss Fletcher tracked him to Edinburgh, but by the time she got there, he had once again fled, this time to Aberdeen. She didn’t immediately follow him, opting to stay in Edinburgh to discover what he had been doing there. After investigating for a few weeks, she found that about a dozen or so children from poor families had gone missing. Knowing of Mr. Campbell’s proclivity for young children, she came to the conclusion that it must have been he who kidnapped them. Fearing for their safety, Miss Fletcher traveled with all haste to Aberdeen to intercept Mr. Campbell, but he and the missing children were gone by the time she arrived. She then spent the next three years following Mr. Campbell to nearly every major port city in the country, always a step or two behind the fiend. The whole while, Mr. Campbell didn’t know Miss Fletcher was following him. His modus operandi was to arrive in a port city, establish himself as an acquirer and supplier of children and make connections with other criminals, abduct children from poor backgrounds that wouldn’t be missed and deliver others, and then move on to the next city. Miss Fletcher believed that London was his last stop, and that he intended to make our city his headquarters.

“This is most fascinating, Miss Fletcher. Might I ask how you got involved with the smuggling case? Whitmore and his men had no connection to Mr. Campbell,” Basil questioned.

“Of course he did. Many of Whitmore’s mules were supplied by Dougal, most in exchange for a portion of the opium,” Miss Fletcher said like Basil should have known. She was sitting in Basil’s chair, having gotten up sometime during the conversation to get herself a cup of tea and some of the cheese crumpets. I noticed that she had been eyeing the police reports and her old journal on the table all the while, but otherwise did not acknowledge their presence as she talked.

“But why involve yourself? Mr. Campbell was your target, not Whitmore,” Basil said.

Miss Fletcher shrugged, “I was hoping I could save the children Dougal had sold to the smugglers, and maybe some of the other mules too”.

Basil hummed in thought as Miss Fletcher spoke, “Is that why you purchased your boots from Mr. Crispin?”

Miss Fletcher’s brow furrowed, “What do my boots and the shoemaker have to do with the smugglers?”

“You didn’t know?” Basil asked, and when Miss Fletcher shook her head, he elaborated, “Mr. Crispin’s oldest daughter was one of Whitmore’s mules. I thought you knew. You made that extensive list of who was moving the opium”.

“I had no idea,” Miss Fletcher looked horrified. “Damn it! I must have missed a few of them. Do you know if she made it back to her family?”

“No,” Basil admitted. “Mr. Crispin asked us to look into her whereabouts, but we came up empty. However! Since the topic came up, I must ask: where did you get the money to purchase your boots? We know you paid a sovereign for them. Where does a former governess come by that kind of money?”

Miss Fletcher frowned hard at Basil, “Brody’s last will and testament. In the event of his death most of his fortune would have gone to the baroness and the girls. But a good portion was stated to be given to the staff. A thank you for tolerating his abuse of his daughters, I think. When they all died--” she paused, voice catching. She took a slow breath, then continued, “when they died, the staff was awarded more of the estate. I was part of the staff, and Brody never had a chance to write me out of the will. It was easier to carry in higher denominations, and then exchange for smaller ones at banks in each new city. It only lasts so long though. The sovereign I payed Mr. Crispin was my last one. I can’t complain. It was worth it. These boots have been quite useful these last few months”.

“Yes, you have certainly demonstrated your prowess for kicking people,” Basil stated.

Eyes flicking up at Basil, Miss Fletcher’s face was suddenly filled with remorse, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about what I did at the printery. I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly. I was only trying to get away”.

“Don’t worry yourself over it,” Basil said lightly. “There was no lasting damage, I assure you”.

The damage may not have been lasting, but there had been a boot shaped bruise on Basil’s torso that had lingered for weeks after Miss Fletcher kicked him. I said nothing of this, of course.

“Now, why don’t you tell me how you got involved with the Chattoways. According to your own letter given to the police, there was no indication that Robert Chase or Lucille Fairfield had connections to Mr. Campbell”.

“That was quite a happenstance. I went to this really sleazy pub down by the Thames to see if anyone knew anything about Dougal, and Robert Chase sits down next to me and starts chewing the fat with me. I humor him because I don’t want to start anything and call attention to myself. After he has, oh I don’t know, four or five beers, he tells me about this plan he and his lady friend have to finally get some money to get married and make something of themselves. Annoyed as I am that I’m being distracted from finding Dougal, this piques my interest, so I loosen him up with more beer, and the idiot tells me everything. So I go back to the printery, do my little write-up, and go rescue a little girl”.

“And the other men you’ve brought to justice?” Basil prompted.

“I was in the right place at the right time,” said Miss Fletcher.

It was my turn to ask a few questions, “Is this vigilantism something you engaged in before you came to London?”

“No, I was too focused on catching Dougal”.

“What changed?” asked Basil.

Miss Fletcher sighed, taking a moment to think over her answer, “Whenever I’d arrive in a new city, Dougal was already gone. He’d already snatched a new group of children and delivered others to who knows where, and I had no way of getting to them. Every time this happened, I would obsess over finding where he’d gone next, and nothing else could break through that focus. But when I came to London, that changed. Dougal is still here. I was able to find out what he’d done with some of those children. I was finally able to do something, and I seized that opportunity with zeal”.

I was amazed by what Miss Fletcher was telling us. Here before Basil and me was a woman who had experienced an event beyond depravity and horror. It changed her, certainly, but even with all odds against her, she retained her determination, tenacity, and ferocity. Miss Fletcher was quite a formidable woman, to say the least.

“It seems, this time, you were met with the same zeal,” I said. “How exactly did you come to be dumped in front of our flat?”

“Well, I recently found myself in another sleazy pub in Whitechapel. I was trying to be careful. With my description being all over the newspapers, and seeing what kind of men I was targeting, it was only a matter of time before Dougal put two and two together and realized it was me and that I’m here because of him. So I’m sitting in the pub, trying to be inconspicuous and make it look like I’m minding my own business, and this group of mice comes in and sits at the table next to mine. I start eavesdropping because that’s how I get the majority of my information, and these guys mention Dougal by name. I listen a little longer and come to the conclusion that they work for him. They don’t stay very long. They stay for about an hour, maybe a little longer and then talk about how they needed to get back to the Limehouse Basin or Dougal would have their heads”.

Basil’s brow furrowed at this, “Limehouse Basin, you say?”

“Yes”.

“There are two locations in London that bear that name”.

“I know. That’s why I followed them”.

“What on earth made you think that was a good idea?” I wondered.

“I wasn’t planning on doing anything at that point. I had no weapon. My pipe was left at the printery and I haven’t been able to replace it. I can handle two or three men in a fight without a weapon, but five? I may be reckless, but I’m not completely stupid. So I was just going to follow them to their hideout, survey the area, and leave so I could formulate a plan”.

“I suppose this is where things went awry,” Basil said.

“And how. I followed them all the way to Regent’s Canal Docks. I was fairly far behind them and lost sight of them. I started poking around, sticking to the shadows as best I could so I wouldn’t be seen. Then I rounded a corner and that’s when they ambushed me. I fended them off as best I could but I was outnumbered, outmatched, and overwhelmed. One of them gave me the cut in my side. When I turned to dodge that attack, they punched me in the face until I fell to the ground and then they started kicking me. I lost consciousness not long after that”.

“Hmm...the odds of them knowing you were in that specific pub are rather slim,” Basil remarked. “Mr. Campbell must have had spies in different pubs around the city on the lookout for you. Did you notice anyone suspicious leave right after you arrived?”

Miss Fletcher’s lips turned down as she struggled to remember, “No. A few left after I had been there for a while, but I didn’t think anything of it”.

“Being inconspicuous, I’d imagine,” stated Basil, and Miss Fletcher nodded in agreement. “Someone must have alerted Mr. Campbell or one of his sentinels of your presence and they sent the group to lure you”.

“Obviously,” Miss Fletcher drawled, “I came to the same conclusion when they started kicking my ribs in”.

I winced at her bluntness. Basil didn’t seem troubled by it, but he did ask hesitantly, “Miss Fletcher, forgive me for asking, but did your attackers know that you are, in fact, a woman?”

Miss Fletcher replied darkly, “I don’t think so. I believe my injuries would have been far worse if they had known”. 

“Now that’s odd. Mr. Campbell clearly knows you’re The Black Arrow. Why wouldn’t he tell anyone?”

“Why didn’t you?” Miss Fletcher countered. She was looking at Basil like he was a puzzle she couldn’t solve, and he in turn was looking back at her the way he does at Mrs. Judson when she catches him doing something he shouldn’t. “See, I know Dougal. He didn’t tell anyone because he hates me. Always did. The thought that it’s been me this whole time following him and putting the fear of God into London’s low-lifes must be driving him mad. He’d rather turn himself in than give me that kind of satisfaction. But you? The paragon of justice and truth? I can just picture you going to the post office and sending off a telegram to my old orphanage practically bursting at the seams with excitement, and the look of triumph on your face when you discovered my identity. The Black Arrow is a woman. I expected to see it in every newspaper. But you haven’t said a word, not to the papers, not to the inspector. Your landlady doesn’t even know. You and the good doctor have been withholding this information, and I can’t begin to fathom why”.

“I--well--I, um,” Basil stammered. He ran a hand through the unruly fur on his head, and began pacing once again, “I was concerned for your safety”.

Miss Fletcher arched a brow skeptically, watching him as he fluttered about the room, “You were concerned for my safety,” she repeated slowly and disbelievingly. 

“If all of mousedom knew who you are, who knows what could have happened to you,” Basil said. Miss Fletcher rolled her eyes as if this was an argument she’d heard many times before, but Basil continued on. “You may have been attacked far sooner, and as you said, far worse, than you were. You may have even been killed, left in a gutter or dropped in the Thames, never to be seen again. I may not agree with your methods, Miss Fletcher, but you don’t deserve that fate”.

Suddenly my friend’s motives became abundantly clear to me, and I chided myself for not having realized it sooner.

Still not convinced that Basil was being forthright, Miss Fletcher responded with a scoff, “All right, I’ll pretend for a moment that you’re being honest. It still begs the question: why do you care about what happens to me? I’m nothing to you except another criminal to remove from your precious London’s streets”.

Basil’s face scrunched up in indignation. I hadn’t seen that look on his face in a while, but it was an expression that crept up when others stubbornly doubted him, “See here, Miss Fletcher! It might do you some good to not be so--”.

“Basil, please,” I cut him off in an attempt to keep both his and Miss Fletcher’s tempers from escalating. “Why don’t you let me explain?”

He took a deep breath. Whatever anger was building in him dissipated as quickly as it had come, “Very well”.

When I turned my attention back to Miss Fletcher, she was already looking at me expectantly, and so I said, “I know that to you, Basil seems cold and aloof, that he cares more about the puzzles he’s solving than the people he’s helping, and I will be honest, sometimes that is true. Basil is passionate about what he does, and it can make him lose sight of the grander scheme of things. But he can be empathetic and compassionate. Much more so than he likes to let on. We have had cases in the past that have deeply touched us, and this is one of them. Yes, we read the police reports, and we read your old journal, and we have come to care about your safety and well being. We would like to see you succeed in this mission of yours, Miss Fletcher, whether you believe it or not”.

The look on Miss Fletcher’s face was quite bemused once I was done speaking. She looked at Basil, having to turn her body to do so because he was fiddling with something on his work table and refusing to look at either of us. She turned back around with a wince, and letting out a sigh she mumbled, “How about that?” then more clearly, “So, is that all of your questions? Because I have to say, I’m ready to move on to the part where you help me put Dougal behind bars”.

“Not so fast, Miss Fletcher,” Basil interjected. He had finally decided to rejoin us, and was standing next to me. He had taken on an authoritative stance standing at his full height with his shoulders back and his hands clasped behind him. “I have one last question for you: was Lord McGregor’s death premeditated?”

Miss Fletcher’s head tilted ever so slightly. I don’t think she expected that question out of Basil, “No. His death was an accident,” she stated in an even tone.

“Miss Fletcher, I must warn you, if you are not honest with me I will retract my offer and summon Inspector Pine at once”.

“I am being honest!” she countered hotly. She made to rise to her feet, but pain hindered her and she quickly fell back into the chair. “Brody’s death was an accident. I don’t know what else you’re looking for out of me”.

“I’m looking for the truth”.

“That is the truth!” 

“But there was more to it than that, wasn’t there? You were devastated by the deaths of the baron’s daughters, certainly, but you were also angry. We didn’t just read your journal and police reports. We have a letter from St. Vincent’s that says you have had wrath and fury in your heart since the day you were left on their doorstep. If you expect me to believe that you didn’t at least consider killing the baron, then you severely underestimate me”.

The woman before me let out a deep, slow sigh as she clenched and unclenched her jaw while leveling a look at Basil that suggested she was considering viciously kicking him again. Clearly something had happened with the baron, if Miss Fletcher was getting so riled up.

“Why don’t you tell us what happened the night he died?” I said. 

Miss Fletcher flicked her gaze back and forth between me and Basil. Knowing her options were rather limited, she recounted, “That night, after the funeral, I was packing my things to go back to Baltimore, when Brody summoned me to his study. I had been in a haze since the girls and Lady McGregor died, and when I got the summons, all of a sudden, the fog lifted. I knew exactly what his intentions were, and that I probably wasn’t going to be going home”.

Basil and I glanced at each other knowingly, “He was going to kill you. You were a loose end he needed to tie up”.

Miss Fletcher nodded, “I walked down the hall to his study, and everything started falling into place. He killed his wife and daughters to keep keep his perversions a secret. He made it look like an accident to make himself look like a tragic figure. No one would suspect the well-liked, grieving childless father and widower of murder. The last person to get rid of was me. You know what’s sad? In those moments walking to his study, I decided I would let him do it”.

It was then that my heart truly broke for Miss Fletcher. To have fallen into such a state of despair, I couldn’t imagine, couldn’t fathom that kind of pain.

Next to me, Basil had gone especially still. As someone who was always pacing, always fidgeting, always on the move, it took something truly extraordinary to get him to stop. I wondered if he was thinking the same thing I was, or perhaps he was recalling our first case together where humiliation at Ratigan’s hand had left him in a similar state.

“I knocked on the door,” Miss Fletcher continued. The fire roared in the hearth as she stared at it, completely lost in the memory, “Dougal let me in, and once I was seated inside, he left Brody and me alone. Brody was always a talkative person. He would talk a novel when a few paragraphs would do, and that night in the study was no different. He went on and on and on about what a tragedy it all was and how unfortunate it was. Part of me just wanted him to shut up and get it over with. After nearly twenty minutes of soliloquizing, he reached into one of his desk drawers and pulled out a gun. It was a four-barreled Lancaster pistol, forty-five calibre. We were finally getting down to brass tacks. He pointed the gun at me and said, ‘I know it was you’. He told me that before her murder, the baroness had told him she was leaving with me and the girls, and that I had convinced her to do it. He couldn’t let that happen. If he couldn’t have his daughters the way he wanted, no one could. He stood up and walked in front of me and pointed the gun right in my face and said he was looking forward to remarrying and having more children. And just like that,” she snapped her fingers, “the anger came back. I still had no desire to live, but I’d be damned if I’d let that filth kill me. I knew he still might manage it, but I could at least make it the hardest thing he’d ever try doing. So I took him by surprise and knocked the gun out of his hand. He was not expecting that. I have to give him some credit, because he recovered quickly and jumped me. We fought for control of the gun. I had a sturdy grip on it, but he was a lot stronger than me, so the fighting wasn’t pretty. Then he pinned me against the desk, the gun was touching his chest, and he grabbed my hand that was on the trigger and twisted it, and in so doing, the trigger was pulled. Four shots into the chest at point blank range. Brody had no hope. You know the rest. So when I tell you that his death was ultimately an accident, I mean it”.

The three of us were silent for a while after that. I don’t think Basil or I really knew what to say, so opted to say nothing. My friend was lost in thought anyway. He was smoking his pipe, thumbing the bowl contemplatively as he stared off into nothing. Miss Fletcher continued to gaze into the fire with an unreadable look on her face. The lull was broken when Mrs. Judson came back into the room to replenish the tea and cheese crumpets. Sitting up a little straighter, Miss Fletcher smiled at the plate of baked goods and mumbled a “Thank you, ma’am” before shoving a crumpet in her mouth with more gusto than is befitting for a young woman.

“Is that it then?” Miss Fletcher asked when Mrs. Judson was out of the room. “Is that everything you wanted to know?”

“Oh, I should think so,” Basil replied, the focus coming back into his eyes.

“Great!” Miss Fletcher pushed through her pain to stand, swaying on her feet a bit as she did so. “Let’s go catch a villain. What did you do with my coat?”

“Are you mad?” Basil questioned, catching Miss Fletcher by the arm before she could start looking for her missing coat. “You are in no condition to catch anyone, much less a scoundrel the likes of Mr. Campbell. You need to rest. We can begin the hunt for our villain in the morning. I'm sure Mrs. Judson will--”.

“No,” Miss Fletcher said firmly, wrenching her arm out of Basil’s grip with ease. 

Basil looked at her with a stunned expression, “I beg your pardon? What do you mean ‘no’?”

“We have to go after him tonight. Dougal thinks you’re going to turn me in right away, so we’ll have the element of surprise and the cover of darkness on our side if we go tonight. We have to go tonight”.

I rose to my feet, shaking a finger at this stubborn young woman, “Now, steady on there, Miss Fletcher. Basil is right. You cannot confront that Campbell fellow in the shape you are in. Do you understand that your injuries are serious? Do you have any idea of the complications that could occur if you get caught in a fight? Your broken rib could puncture your lung, or even your heart. And the cut in your side? I cleaned it to the best of my ability, but people like the men who attacked you aren’t known for keeping their weapons clean. There is a very high likelihood that you are going to get an infection, and it may prove fatal”.

“She already feels warm, Dawson,” Basil informed me, and Miss Fletcher swatted away the hand that he placed on her forehead to check her temperature.

“All the more reason to get going. We're wasting time standing here and arguing about it,” she replied. She had found her coat hanging from the over large tribal mask propped in the corner of the room. When it was back on her frame, she was once again The Black Arrow, though the effect was lessened somewhat without a black shirt to complete the look. 

“Confound it all!” I boomed in exasperation. “We don’t even know where Mr. Campbell is located. If you’d only stop for a moment and allow Basil to--”

“They’re at the West India Docks,” Miss Fletcher interrupted, and it took all my strength as an English gentlemouse not to reprimand her for cutting one of us off again while we were speaking.

“How can you be so sure?” Basil asked, giving Miss Fletcher a leery look.

“Limehouse Basin,” she said with an eyeroll like it was obvious and we were stupid for not knowing. “Before I passed out the first time they were still talking about getting back there even though we were still at the Regency Canal Docks. The only other place they could be talking about is the West India Docks”.

“Not necessarily. You were badly beaten, failing to stay conscious. You could have been mistaken in your disoriented state,” Basil stated reasonably. “I would need a more definitive lead than what you are giving me”.

Miss Fletcher scowled at Basil in annoyance, “You need more? How about this? They smelled like molasses and coffee, two major exports of the West Indies. I could smell it on them even before the first punch was thrown. Is that more definitive for you?”

“Miss Fletcher,” I was nearly at the end of my rope. She was breaking Basil and me down. “We understand what catching Mr. Campbell means to you. I can’t speak for my associate, but I know I would hate to see something terrible happen to you because we rushed into a dangerous situation without a plan. Why are you so desperate to get this done tonight?”

“Because I’m so close to catching him! I have been chasing that filth for three years, and now, finally, he is within my grasp, and I’m not going to let something like a broken rib and a flesh wound stop me!”

Her voice had risen quite a bit as she spoke, both in pitch and volume, alluding to her sense of urgency, but when she was done, she looked at Basil with a deeply thoughtful expression.

“Hawkshaw, you pursued Professor Ratigan for years. You know the agonizing frustration of being so close to catching someone so vile, only for them to slip through your fingers and you have to start all over again. But you ended up stopping him. Did you ever let anything stop you?”

A manic glint appeared in Basil’s eyes. That was that, then. Miss Fletcher had just unequivocally secured Basil’s help. I can’t say I approved, but if this was the choice Miss Fletcher wanted to make, then I wasn’t going to be the one to stand in her way. And I certainly wasn’t going to let Basil go without me.

“I’ll get my coat,” I said with a sigh, sending a prayer to the good Lord that this didn’t end in disaster.


	7. Chapter 7

“You should have taken the morphine,” I said to Miss Fletcher in a matter-of-fact tone, which earned me a potent glare from the young woman.

 

The three of us were standing in the shadows on the edge of the West India Docks. Basil was acting as lookout while Miss Fletcher braced herself against a nearby wall, clutching her side and looking like she was going to collapse from pain and exhaustion. The reason for her aggravated discomfort was sitting close by wagging his tail, most pleased with himself. Toby and Miss Fletcher’s first meeting didn’t go well at all. Before going to enlist the dog’s assistance, I had once again offered Miss Fletcher liniment and morphine to dull her pain. She’d accepted the former and refused the latter. The scent must have been too strong for Toby’s sensitive canine nose, because the moment he got a whiff of her, he growled and snarled at her in a most vicious way. Miss Fletcher, having the background that she does, was not at all impressed with Toby’s aggressive display. Basil had to step in to focus the dog’s attention, and Toby did as Basil commanded. But when we finally left for the docks, it seemed Toby sprinted with more vigor than usual, making the ride exceedingly bumpy. Honestly, I was surprised that Miss Fletcher was even able to stand considering the amount of pain she had to be in from Toby jostling her about.

 

“I told you, Doctor, I can't afford to be impaired right now,” she insisted. With a muffled whimper, she pushed herself off the wall to stand fully. “Hey, hawkshaw, how long did you say it would take Pine to get here?”

 

“I wouldn’t hold my breath for a prompt arrival. I’d say three quarters of an hour, at the very least,” Basil replied, keeping his eyes on the dark docks before us.

 

“Wonderful,” Miss Fletcher responded flatly. “Give me back that cane then. We need to get started”.

 

Basil handed back the walking stick he’d been holding to Miss Fletcher. It was a sleek black and topped with a heavy, silver handle. It had been a compromise for a weapon. Miss Fletcher had asked for the axe from the sitting room’s suit of armor, and Basil hadn’t wanted to give her anything.

 

“All right, if I were operating an illegal trafficking business, where would I hide?” Miss Fletcher mused aloud.

 

“It would have to be hidden well enough so the average passer-by wouldn’t notice it, but easy to find if you were a client,” Basil said.

 

Miss Fletcher rolled her eyes, “Thank you, hawkshaw. I was able to come to the same conclusion myself, but that doesn’t tell us where Dougal is”.

 

Basil flashed one of his knowing smiles, “It’s this way, of course,” he declared, and without waiting to see if we were going to follow, started sneaking off in the direction he had indicated.

 

Huffing out a heavy, annoyed sigh, Miss Fletcher grumbled, “Of course”. She gestured for me to walk ahead of her, saying, “I’ll watch your backs”.

 

We wandered around the docks for a long time. Basil was certain he knew where he was going and what he was looking for, but after a half hour of looking there was still no sign of Campbell and his lackeys. We were worried that Pine would get here before we could find our quarry, and all the noise the inspector and his men would inevitably make would scare Campbell off. Basil insisted that we needed to make haste, but all the insisting in the world wasn’t going to do any good if we couldn’t locate our villain’s hiding spot.

 

All the while, Miss Fletcher lagged behind us, stumbling as she walked along. Whenever we stopped so Basil could reassess where we should look next, she would slump against the nearest vertical surface, chest heaving for air and her fur damp with sweat though the evening was quite chilly. It was as I feared. An infection was beginning to rage through Miss Fletcher’s body. The look of agony and panic on her face told me she was also keenly aware of this.

 

In front of me, Basil rounded a corner. I was about to do the same, but was suddenly shoved backwards as he retreated quick as lightning.

 

“I believe I may have found Campbell’s hideout,” he whispered excitedly. “One of his lackeys is on guard near a mouse-sized entrance into this building”.

 

“Did he see you?” Miss Fletcher asked as she caught up to us, leaning against the wall to catch her breath.

 

Basil shook his head, “I don’t think so”.

 

“Move,” she ordered, shoving Basil out of the way. Pressing herself as flat as she could against the wall, she slowly and carefully poked her head around the corner.

 

“That’s one of the goons that attacked me,” she said with a growl. “It’s just him, but he’s out in the open, about five human yards away. There’s nothing to hide behind on that stretch of the docks. Perfect place to keep an illegal trafficking business when you don’t want sneaky do-gooders like us lurking around”.

 

“How are we going to handle this?” I asked. “The fiend will surely see us and raise the alarm”.

 

“Goodness, if only we knew someone who was exceptionally talented at hiding in the shadows at night time,” Miss Fletcher replied flatly.

 

I wrinkled my nose at her “No need to be sarcastic,” I huffed.

 

She grinned, “Of course there is. Now, you two stay here. I’ll take care of this”.

 

“Hold on there, Miss Fletcher,” Basil grabbed her coat and pulled her back. “You can’t just dive into danger in your condition. We need a plan”.

 

“I have a plan,” she insisted. Then she met Basil’s eyes, and saw the uncertainty and concern in them, and her expression became more serious. “Don’t worry, hawkshaw. I’ve got this,” she assured. Then, flipping the hood of her coat over her head, she disappeared around the corner.

 

“Dawson, I think we should prepare to assist Miss Fletcher if this doesn’t go well,” said Basil uneasily. I hummed in agreement.

 

We peeked around the corner to watch Miss Fletcher as she crept along the wall in the shadows. Her description of our surroundings was quite accurate. From our viewpoint, the building housing Campbell was to our right, and the expanse of docks was to the left. The area was indeed alarmingly open; no barrels or rope or even rocks were around to offer cover. But Miss Fletcher did have one advantage: the cover of darkness. The night was overcast, as was the usual in London, making the docks dark enough that Campbell’s guard would have a difficult time spotting the black-clad Miss Fletcher until she was much closer to him.

 

It took some time, and there were a few close calls when the thug turned our way, but it seemed luck was on our side. Miss Fletcher managed to remain unseen during her trek. Then, once she was close enough and the guard’s back was turned, she tiptoed away from the wall and sneaked up behind him. She slowly raised the cane in the air, preparing to strike the ruffian down before he could catch wind of us.

 

Of course, that’s when he decided to turn around.

 

“Well, hey there, sailor,” Miss Fletcher said, completely unfazed, and swung the cane with all her might, connecting hard with the thug’s head. He swayed and stumbled for a moment before collapsing at Miss Fletcher’s feet. We were too far away to see, and Miss Fletcher had her hood up anyway, but I’d like to think she’d had that wicked, smug smile on her face during the whole confrontation.

 

Basil and I hastened to Miss Fletcher, who was leaning heavily on the cane and breathing hard though she didn’t expend much effort to fell the mouse at her feet.

 

“You certainly made short work of that,” said Basil as he eyed the prone thug. I could have been mistaken, but he sounded impressed.

 

Miss Fletcher’s only responded with a shrug and a half-hearted chuckle.

 

I placed a hand on her shoulder and asked, “Are you all right?”

 

“I’m fine,” she replied, standing up to her full height for emphasis, “but there’s at least four more mice and Dougal in there, and I can’t fight that many at once”.

 

“Leave that to me,” said Basil with a glint in his eye. Both Miss Fletcher and I shot him puzzled looks, but he paid us no mind.

 

“Oy!” he shouted in a deep, gravely voice, the one he normally used when in disguise. “We got a situation out here! Some help would be nice!”

 

He turned to Miss Fletcher, and with a smirk he said, “Get ready, Miss Fletcher”.

 

Miss Fletcher’s expression turned sour as she realized what Basil had just done, but it turned determined at the sound of commotion coming from inside.

 

“Get behind me,” she ordered us, and we readily complied.

 

Three large, burly mice came rushing outside to see what the trouble was about. When they saw their fallen comrade and us standing there, they screamed in rage and charged us. Miss Fletcher shifted her body into a defensive stance, nimbly twirling the cane in her hands. The first one reached us ready to fight. He clenched his hand into a fist and swung. Miss Fletcher ducked, completely dropping to the ground. She kicked one foot out, and caught the thug’s leg, causing him to splay face-first into the ground. With him out of the way, Miss Fletcher focused on the other two adversaries. The two mice flanked her; in one fluid motion, she sidestepped one and jabbed the other in the chest with the end of the cane. I was about to step in to handle the last mouse, but Miss Fletcher made an elegant turn, and swung at the ruffian’s knees. He leaped backwards, just barely missing the cane’s handle grip. Quickly regaining his balance, the mouse swung a fist in defense, and made contact with Miss Fletcher’s nose. She stumbled sideways with a grunt, her hood falling off from the force of the punch. I decided to make my move; I jumped on Miss Fletcher’s assailant and got his head in a headlock. He tried to shake me off, but I, being much heavier, had an advantage. I squeezed my arm around his neck until he lost consciousness.

 

“Thanks for that,” said Miss Fletcher breathlessly. She tried to wipe away some of the blood that was cascading out of her nose. It continued to bleed profusely, dripping blood down her face and staining her borrowed white shirt.

 

“I say, Dawson, that was quite impressive,” said Basil. He said nothing when he got a look at Miss Fletcher’s bloody face, but he reached into his coat pocket and handed her a handkerchief. She took it wordlessly with a grateful nod before pressing it to her nose.

 

“Oh, hardly,” I dismissed. “Miss Fletcher did the brunt of the work. All that jujitsu training in your adolescence has certainly served you well, hasn’t it, Miss Fletcher?”

 

Obscured as her face was by the handkerchief, Miss Fletcher had no trouble conveying through her eyes alone that I had said something amiss. In an instant I could see confusion, then realization, and finally something pained flicker in her expression.

 

“Right. The jujitsu,” she said in an even tone as she narrowed her eyes at me. Satisfied that her nose had stopped bleeding, Miss Fletcher made to hand the handkerchief back to Basil, who held up a hand saying “Keep it,” so she stuffed it into one of her coat pockets.

 

“So, what do we do now?” I asked. “Pine’s still not here, and we can’t just waltz into Campbell’s hideout”.

 

Basil sighed while he considered our options, “I think the best thing would be to wait for the police”.

 

“I’m not waiting,” Miss Fletcher said almost reflexively, and started walking toward the entrance with renewed determination. “You stay here”.

 

“Now see here!” Basil fell in step right behind Miss Fletcher, and made to grab for her. But she seemed to anticipate this, and spun on her heel, bringing up the end of the cane into Basil’s chest, but not hard enough to hurt him. It was more for emphasis than a threat.

 

“I’m. Not. Waiting,” she uttered firmly. “You don’t have to come with me. I’d much rather you two stay and wait out here. You’ve already done enough for me and I can’t ask you to put yourselves in danger again on my account”.

 

“Miss Fletcher, if you’re going in there, then we’re going with you. You shouldn’t have to do this alone,” Basil looked to me for confirmation, and I vigorously nodded my head in agreement.

 

“Of course. I’m always in the mood for showing ruffians what for”.

 

Miss Fletcher dropped her gaze to the ground. She let out a shuddering breath, and then looked at the entrance to Campbell’s hideout with such a fierce expression, I’m surprised the whole building didn’t burst into flames.

 

“Then let’s go,” and resumed walking toward the door.

 

Very suddenly, she turned to face us, “Stay behind me,” she ordered, turning back around. She stopped again, and pointed at me, “You, keep an eye on your associate. He looks like he’s never thrown a punch in his life”.

 

“I’ll have you know, Miss Fletcher, that I do know how to ‘throw a punch’ if I need to,” Basil countered indignantly.

 

Miss Fletcher scoffed as she continued on, still moving stiffly and painfully, “Oh, goodness, only one? Then you might only succeed in angering an attacker instead of beating him”.

 

Basil made another offended sputter, but didn’t say anything further, as we were nearing the door. Miss Fletcher tried the handle, but it was locked. I wondered how we were going to proceed. Knocking didn’t seem appropriate or advisable in this situation, and there was no time to pick the lock. I thought surely there must be another entrance that we could sneak through.

 

Then Miss Fletcher leaned back and kicked the door open. And so my wonderings were put to rest.

 

Miss Fletcher rushed inside, at least as much as she could. Basil and I followed closely behind, flanking her on either side once we were through the entrance. To our complete surprise, hardly anyone was inside. The room we were occupying was fairly large and open, with only one other door on the far side and a few pillars here and there. The other occupants were to our right. On the floor were roughly a dozen children of mixed ages and genders, bound and gagged. The poor things all look frightened out of their minds. Standing in front of them were four mice, one well dressed, one less so, and the other two looked like they hadn’t seen new clothing in quite some time.

 

The slightly less well dressed one sighed, as if our presence in the hideout was only a minor inconvenience, “I thought you said you took care of this one,” he said in a thick Scottish accent, and I realized that he was the infamous Dougal Campbell. I can honestly tell you that I was taken aback by how normal he looked, but sometimes when you hear about how monstrous someone is, you expect to see a monster. Dougal Campbell, however, looked quite unassuming. He was an older fellow, short with grey fur. He was a bit on the stocky side, but really couldn’t be described as fat. He looked at Miss Fletcher with fury in his cold, black eyes, and Basil and I both moved closer to her.

 

“We did, boss, honest!” cried one of Campbell’s goons. “We beat him up real good”.

 

“Clearly not good enough,” Campbell said. He let out a long sigh, then turned to the well-dressed gentlemouse, “I’m sorry, Mr. Brewer, but I’m afraid we’ll have to finish this transaction at a later date. Boys! Escort Mr. Brewer out of here. Take the back way, and make sure no one sees you,” the two goons hopped to it, grabbing their customer and practically carrying him away. On the floor, the children continued to whimper.

 

Once Campbell’s men and the mysterious Mr. Brewer were gone, Campbell brought his attention back to us. He smiled dangerously, and held his arms out in welcome, “Artemis Fletcher. It’s been a long time, lass. Three years, aye?”

 

“Indeed,” she confirmed. She leaned on the cane, supporting most of her weight on it. Some of it was genuine, I knew. The events of the day had to be catching up to her, but every muscle in her body was tense. Her entire being was pulled tighter than a bow string. Miss Fletcher was ready to fight, and she was putting on a small act to trick Campbell.

 

Her head turned toward the children and she nodded at them, “Let the children go, Dougal. They don’t need to see this”.

 

“I don’t think so. It’s bad business to lose product before it can be delivered”.

 

Miss Fletcher’s hackles raised, “Children are not _things_ ,” she spat distastefully.

 

Campbell shrugged, “Doesn’t matter. No one’s missing these bairns, and you don’t look like you’re in a position to do anything about it anyway. Besides, this isn’t going to take long”.

 

Miss Fletcher gripped the cane a little more tightly.

 

“Ach! Where are my manners?” said Campbell in a sickly-sweet way. “All those years being a butler, and I haven’t even offered you a seat. Care to join me?” There was a table a few paces away from the children. Campbell sat himself down in one of the chairs, and kicked another out for Miss Fletcher. “Sit”.

 

“I’d rather not,” said Miss Fletcher, though she still limped over to the table.

 

Giving her a once-over, Campbell let out an amused little laugh, “You probably can’t, can you? My boys roughed you up too good, and now you can’t do much of anything without screaming like the little girl that you are,” he leaned forward in his seat, flashing a thoroughly evil smile. “I do love it when little girls scream”.

 

“Dougal,” growled Miss Fletcher in warning.

 

“Don’t get me wrong, I like it when little boys scream too, but it’s not usually me making ‘em do it”.

 

Listening to the exchange made my stomach churn. Next to me, Basil clenched his fists as he visibly seethed.  We locked eyes, and he inclined his head toward the door, then inconspicuously gestured at himself and pointed at the back door. Campbell would notice us going to block the doors but it was a good way to keep him from fleeing, and to keep a lookout. The downside was if things went awry, if Miss Fletcher needed us, we would be standing too far away to be of proper use. I had to trust that Basil knew what he was doing, and that Miss Fletcher could fend off Campbell if she had to.

 

“You’re a sick bastard,” she snapped.

 

Campbell smirked, leaning back in his seat, “Aye. That I am, lass. But as sick as I am, at least I can honestly say that I’m not responsible for the death of a whole family”.

 

A beat of silence, then, “What happened was a result of Brody’s own making,” Miss Fletcher asserted firmly.

 

“ _Lord McGregor’s_ death was your fault!” shouted Campbell, his pleasant veneer falling away into something more dangerous. “Because you stuck your nose where it didn’t belong. You, an outlander, were welcomed into his home with the expectation that you mind your own, and you couldn’t even do that much. Now the family that my own family has been serving for generations is dead because of you. You may not have snapped the mousetrap or fed them to the cat, but their blood is on your hands. What happens tonight isn’t going to change that”.

 

I got into position by the main door, and across the room by the back door, Basil gave me a nod once we made eye contact. Campbell looked at both of us, but didn’t seem bothered that both of his exits were blocked. I found this incredibly concerning. The only reason I could think of to explain this was Campbell was confident he could get rid of us without issue. That meant he was most likely armed.

 

“Got nothing to say to that, do you? ‘Course you don’t, because you know I’m right,” Campbell continued when Miss Fletcher didn’t respond. He chuckled condescendingly, “Little orphan Artie. Oh, yes, I know about that. Overheard you telling the baron’s daughters. Your real parents didn’t want you and I bet the ones that took you in are regretting they did”.

 

Miss Fletcher sighed, sounding more frustrated than angry, “If you’re trying to goad me, Dougal, it’s not going to work. I didn’t come here to exchange banter and witticisms with you”.

 

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry, lass. I know exactly why you came here. I’m not too worried about it though,” Campbell moved his coat to reveal a holster at his hip, and nestled in it was, in fact, a gun. A revolver, to be more exact. I gasped involuntarily, suddenly very afraid for Miss Fletcher. In spite of the added danger, she still maintained a cool demeanor. Campbell’s little smirk fell when he failed to get the reaction he wanted (or any reaction at all) out of Miss Fletcher. “I have to admit, when I first heard about some bampot doing his own police work, it never occurred to me that it could be you. Then the papers started giving us details: tall, thin, black fur, defending children. Who else could it be? I realized you must have been following me this whole time, all over this god forsaken island. A bit pathetic, really”.

 

“What is it with Scottish men and never shutting up?” Miss Fletcher huffed in what I'm sure was an amazing display of restraint. “Whatever you’re going to do, Dougal, just do it already. I’m getting bored”.

 

Fully scowling by now, Campbell eyed Basil and me again, then shot a look to the captive children before locking eyes with Miss Fletcher, “I'll tell you what, lass. You walk away right now, I'll forget I ever saw you. Go home to your mum and da. Tell them you're sorry for being such a disappointment. This doesn't need to get messy”.

 

“Of course it does. I've come too far for anything else”.

 

To my horror, Campbell pulled the gun out of its holster and pointed it at Miss Fletcher, aiming between her eyes. He sighed and said, “I’d say I’m sorry for this, but we both know that would be a lie”.

 

The gun went off. The children screamed. I shut my eyes with my hand on the door handle ready to flee, certain that Miss Fletcher must be lying dead or dying on the floor. But what I heard was the crash of a chair falling to the floor, and then scuffling. I turned to look. Campbell was on the floor, his chair having been tilted backwards by Miss Fletcher, who was in the process of kicking the gun out of Campbell’s grip and over near me. I hurried to grab it, and emptied the remaining bullets out of the revolver’s chambers to ensure there was one less threat in the room. In the commotion, Basil had dashed over to the children and began to undo their binds. One by one, as they were freed, they ran to me, and I opened the door to let them out.

 

“The police are coming. If you see them, send them this way,” I told them. An adolescent boy nodded before running out into the night like the devil himself was chasing him.

 

By this point, Miss Fletcher, had roughly taken Campbell by the scruff of his shirt and slammed him bodily into the nearest pillar. She pressed the cane into his throat, cutting off his air. He wheezed and struggled against her, but Miss Fletcher only pressed harder.

 

“I’d say I’m sorry for crushing your windpipe, but we both know that would be a lie,” said Miss Fletcher.

 

Eyes beginning to bulge out of his head, Campbell continued to try and kick or otherwise loosen Miss Fletcher’s hold on him, but no such luck. She sharply brought a knee up into his groin, ceasing his writhing for the time being.

 

“It’s over, Dougal.” Miss Fletcher’s voice was soft, gentle, like she was explaining a complicated concept to a confused child. “You’re going to go to jail for a very long time, and you will never be able to hurt another child ever again”.

 

“Miss Fletcher,” Basil said in a warning tone. If Miss Fletcher didn’t let up on Campbell soon, she would surely choke him to death.

 

But it seemed she didn’t need the warning. Suddenly realizing the finality of his fate, Campbell’s face filled with rage, and he spat right in Miss Fletcher’s face. She let go instantly, but swung the cane hard into his face with an enraged yell, and Campbell dropped to the floor like a stone gasping, wheezing, coughing and groaning. Wasting no time, Miss Fletcher delivered another swift, hard kick to Campbell’s groin. His hands instinctively went to cup himself. The next kick from Miss Fletcher got him in the fingers, the steel toe of her boot breaking several of them with a sickening crunch. When he screamed and pulled his hands away, it left things open for a third kick. Campbell didn’t have much air left in him to make any more noise after that.

 

“That was for the girls,” she said while Campbell whimpered. A kick to his gut had her saying “For the baroness”. She made like she was going in for another blow, but Basil, having freed all the children, put himself between the huntress and her quarry.

 

“Miss Fletcher, stop!” he urged. “There has been enough suffering on his account. Don’t add to it, even if it’s his own. You caught him. You won. You can stop now”.

 

Her eyes flicked wildly back and forth between Basil and Campbell, poised to continue heaping retribution down on the man she’d spent three years tracking down, but then her shoulders slumped, and the raging fire in her eyes slowly died away. She took a few steps back until her back hit the pillar, and she slid down all the way to the floor, finally spent.

 

“Good,” Basil said. He waved me over and motioned towards Campbell. “Rest a moment, Miss Fletcher. You’ve earned it”.

 

Campbell’s injuries were severe but not life threatening. The blow to his face dislocated his jaw, which, if the cane pressed against his neck hadn’t done it already, could potentially cause his hyoid bone to fracture. With some physical manipulation, I popped Campbell’s jaw back into place. When he moaned at the pain, I could not bring myself to feel any sympathy for him.

 

“Are the children all right? Did they all get out?” Miss Fletcher asked once I was finished.

 

“Yes, Miss Fletcher, they’re all going to be fine,” I answered. “I think the more important question is: are you all right? How are your injuries?”

 

She flashed me a small smile, “Oh, I’m just peachy. I feel like my left side is being gnawed on, but I’m hanging in there”.

 

“That’s about as good as can be expected. You’ve aggravated your injuries enough for one day. Just keep resting until Pine gets here”.

 

“I think I hear him now, actually,” said Basil. He made his way to the door and poked his head outside. “In here, Pine!” he called.

 

“You know, Dougal was right about one thing,” said Miss Fletcher. At her splayed feet, Campbell made a noise somewhere between a moan and a growl.

 

I checked his broken fingers. One would probably heal just fine, but the rest would most likely be deformed for the rest of his life. “And what’s that?”

 

Miss Fletcher chuckled, “This didn't take very long at all”.

 

Inspector Pine came into Campbell’s hideout with four other officers. He gave orders to two of them to place Campbell under arrest and have him removed from the premises. The remaining officers did a sweep of the room. It wasn’t long before they were finished, and we were all standing in front of Miss Fletcher.

 

“So,” began Pine, looking down at Miss Fletcher like she was something of a disappointment, “this is the infamous Black Arrow”.

 

Miss Fletcher chuckled. “Indeed. Artemis Fletcher. It’s a genuine pleasure to finally meet you, Inspector”.

 

With a snort, Pine said, “Fletcher. Of course. I mean no offense when I say this, Mr. Fletcher, but you’re not exactly what I was expecting”.

 

Getting that same look she had back at the printery, Miss Fletcher said, “Well, I’ve definitely seen better days”.

 

“So have the men outside, and the one in here. You certainly did a number on them”.

 

“They did a number on me first. I was just repaying the favor”.

 

“Detective Basil told me you’ve been chasing one of them for a while,” said Pine.

 

“Yep”.

 

“He one of the men we just arrested?”

 

“Yep”.

 

“Good. You know we have to arrest you too, right?”

 

“Yep”.

 

“All right then! Up you get! I’d like to get out of here before the press arrives”.

 

Miss Fletcher made to get up, but hesitated, “Um..”

 

Pine frowned down at her, “Is there a problem?”

 

Her eyes shot to Basil with a pleading look, “I, uh, I may need some help standing up”.

 

“Of course, old chap! Allow me.” Basil knelt down on the floor. He wrapped Miss Fletcher’s right arm around his neck, and wrapped his left around her middle. “Come on, old fellow, get your feet under you. That’s it. Now, on the count of three. One, two, three”. Basil stood, pulling Miss Fletcher up with him. Her eyes went wide with agony, though she made no sound. “Can you walk on your own?” he asked. He still hadn’t let go of her.

 

“Probably not,” she replied.

 

“Well, you’re going to have to,” said Pine, pulling out a pair of handcuffs and shackling Miss Fletcher with them. “Mr. Fletcher you are under arrest for the assault and battery of Mr. Albert Hawthorne. I should also inform you that he’s waiting outside”.

 

“What?” asked Basil incredulously. “You let him come along?”

 

“He insisted. He stopped by the station for an update, and that’s when that street urchin you sent arrived with your note. Said he was coming along whether I liked it or not”.

 

“This should be interesting,” mumbled Miss Fletcher.

 

Pine led the way out. The other two officers supported Miss Fletcher as she limped outside, and Basil and I followed behind. Several other officers were milling about outside. Some were examining the fallen thugs while others were left with nothing to do. Off to the side, there stood a mouse who was very obviously not one of Pine’s officers. For one, he was not wearing an officer’s uniform, and he was also far too fat.

 

“That’s him, Inspector!” exclaimed Mr. Hawthorne. His dark brown whiskers twitched indignantly on his short, round face. “That’s the man who attacked me! I hope you’ve arrested him!”     

 

“Good evening, Albert!” greeted Miss Fletcher affably. She stood tall and unbothered, her posture and demeanor completely belied her injuries. To top it off, that disingenuous, terrifying smile had curled its way across her lips. “You’re looking well. Your nose looks decidedly less broken and your mouth considerably less toothy”.

 

“That is entirely your fault, you low-life! I’d have your head for this if I had my way!” Mr. Hawthorne boomed.

 

Miss Fletcher arched a brow, “That’s rich coming from someone who punched a child in the face who was a third his size”.

 

“That hooligan called me a ‘land whale’,” barked Hawthorne.

 

“If the shoe fits,” Miss Fletcher said with a shrug.

 

“Why you little--” Hawthorne lunged at Miss Fletcher, but stopped himself as several officers walked by carrying one of Campbell’s unconscious thugs. “Oh!” he piped, as if he was just noticing that there were injured men lying about the docks. “You did this, didn’t you?”

 

“Indeed, I did,” confirmed Miss Fletcher with pride. When Hawthorne looked at her fearfully, she leaned in and said, “Your move, Albert”.

 

All the color drained from the ruddy skin beneath Hawthorne’s brown fur. Suddenly aware that he wasn’t as tough as he thought he was, Hawthorne began to sputter, “Oh, well, um”. He cleared his throat. “Inspector Pine, after careful consideration, I have decided to drop the charges against this man”.

 

“Mr. Hawthorne, are you sure?” said Pine with uncertainty.

 

“For God’s sake, man, just do it!” hollered Hawthorne. He didn’t wait for Pine to do what he asked, simply storming off as fast as his legs would carry him, mumbling to himself as he went.

 

Miss Fletcher smirked. “Good move, Albert”.

 

“Well, then, Mr. Fletcher it seems you are free to go,” said Pine as he pulled out the keys to the handcuffs and removed them from Miss Fletcher’s wrists. “I still want you to come to the station and give us a statement”.

 

“Inspector Pine, if I may,” I cut in. Miss Fletcher was starting to show more signs of illness. Her fur was completely drenched with sweat, and her eyes were becoming glassy and unfocused. She began to sway on her feet again. I nudged Basil to stand near her in case she collapsed. “This... _mouse_ has very serious injuries from earlier in the day, and I must insist that I tend to them immediately. Your statement will have to wait”.

 

Pine looked at me dubiously, “What kind of injuries?”

 

“A stab wound and a broken rib”.

 

Frowning, Pine addressed Miss Fletcher, “You did all this with a stab wound and a broken rib?”

 

“Yessir,” Miss Fletcher slurred. She started leaning to one side, but Basil righted her before she could fall over.

 

“Fine,” Pine relented with a sigh. “But the moment he’s recovered you bring him to the station. Understood?”

 

“Will do, Inspector. Thank you,” I said, and Pine stalked off to finish whatever worked needed to be done at the scene.

 

“Hey, Doctor?” Miss Fletcher said. I turned to face her. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll take that morphine now”.

 

I sighed, “The moment we get back to our flat, you can have as much as you need”.

 

* * *

 

 

Toby carried us back to Baker Street with all the speed his legs could muster. There was one spare bedroom in our flat, and we whisked Miss Fletcher inside the moment we got home. She needed to be changed into looser fitting clothes to make tending to her easier for me. A pair of Basil’s pajamas were offered up for the task, but neither Basil nor I felt comfortable dressing her, and Miss Fletcher was too weak to do it herself. We enlisted Mrs. Judson to help us, but this forced us to come clean with our landlady about Miss Fletcher’s identity. Mrs. Judson was less than pleased, to say the least, but completed the task nonetheless. She gave us both quite a scolding through the bedroom door the whole time.

 

In the few hours that we had been gone to confront Campbell, the wound in Miss Fletcher’s side had turned bright red and puffy, was concerningly warm to the touch, and had begun to smell. By some miracle, she hadn’t ripped her stitches in the fight, but upon my reexamination, I determined that the best course of treatment would be to remove them altogether and regularly flush out the wound until the infection was gone. It was risky, but there were no better options available to us. All the while, Miss Fletcher’s fever continued to climb alarmingly high. Even several doses of willow bark tea did little to alleviate Miss Fletcher’s rising body temperature. She’d lie in bed in the throes of frightening fever dreams, tossing and turning, mumbling incoherently to herself as she fought off demons only she could see. Basil and I hardly left her during this time. Neither of us wanted her to be alone.

 

Days passed, and slowly, Miss Fletcher’s condition began to improve. Her wound stopped looking so angry, and then her fever finally broke. Once I was confident she was on the mend, I stitched up her wound again, hopefully for the last time. She continued to get better as the week progressed. She was able to eat and drink normally and get up and walk around a bit. She even managed to get into the bathroom and clean herself up all on her own. Her prognosis was looking quite good.

 

So imagine our surprise when one morning, about a week and a half after the fight with Campbell, I went to check on Miss Fletcher, only to find a neatly made bed with Basil’s folded pajamas lying on the pillows and a note on the nightstand. She’d left in the middle of the night while we were all sleeping. That was quite an accomplishment because Basil almost never sleeps through the night. She must have waited for a night that he did and made her escape. Basil seemed more disappointed than surprised by her departure, but his spirits improved after reading the note she had left.

 

_Gentlemen,_

 

_I am sure my sudden absence will cause quite a stir. For that, I am sorry, but I have one last thing I need to take care of. I also plan on going to the police station to give Inspector Pine my statement, so neither of you need to worry about being responsible for that._

 

_I must thank you both. I could not have brought Dougal to justice without your help._

 

_When I am done with my last little errand, I will return and thank you in person properly._

 

_Regards,_

 

Of course, she had signed it with the usual bow and arrow drawing.

 

“I wonder why she left without saying anything,” I said.

 

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Dawson. I’m certain we’ll either read about it in the newspaper soon enough, or she’ll explain herself when she comes back,” Basil assured me.

 

“How do you know she will come back?” I asked.

 

Basil shrugged after thinking about it for a moment. “She said she would”.

 

We waited for nearly a week without any word at all from Miss Fletcher. Although we suspected we’d be hearing from her soon when Pine showed up to our flat. When we answered the door he simply asked “How could you not tell me?” to which Basil answered “You know now,” and slammed the door in Pine’s face (I, of course, invited him back in for tea to diffuse the situation. There was a stipulation that the case not be discussed). After Pine left, Basil sat me down and said there was something he needed to speak to me about. It was something he had been thinking on for several days: an offer, a proposition to present to Miss Fletcher upon her return. I was a little dubious at first, but Basil went through every reason why his idea was sound, and I was quickly swayed. Convincing Mrs. Judson proved to be more difficult.

 

“It’s not appropriate, Mr. Basil. She’s a woman. What will everyone say?” she protested.

 

“The only people who know she’s a woman are us and Inspector Pine. The rest of London thinks The Black Arrow is a man. No one will say anything,” Basil pointed out.

 

“I don’t care. I’ll not have it. Not in this house”.

 

“She has nowhere else to go, Mrs. Judson. Are you telling me you’d turn her away? I’ve never known you to be so heartless”.

 

It took Basil a long time to wear Mrs. Judson down, but wear her down, he did. She had some rules, though, should Miss Fletcher accept the offer.

 

“Why do you want to do this, Basil? It’s not like you owe this to her,” I questioned one morning while we were eating breakfast.

 

“Simple, Doctor. It’s the logical thing. Miss Fletcher is extremely intelligent, and has proved to be dauntless in her pursuit of justice. She would be a valuable addition to our team”.

 

“She has also proven to be violent and reckless,” I reminded him.

 

“She has proven to have acted in defense of those who could not defend themselves. I cannot defend the recklessness. Everyone has their faults,” Basil offered airily.

 

I smiled at him knowingly, and gave him a wink, “Something about her reminds you of yourself”.

 

“I--what--no--I--” he stammered, suddenly flustered. He took a breath to collect himself, knowing he’d been found out, and then said, “It’s not quite that. I can’t help but think that under different circumstances, Miss Fletcher’s and my place in the world could have been switched. I couldn’t help but think what I would have needed most if I was in her position”.

 

I gazed at him curiously, “What do you think you would have needed?”

 

“A chance”.

 

I nodded in understanding, “And you want to give her hers”.

 

“Indeed, Dawson. I think she deserves one”.

 

I chuckled with amusement at my friend. Basil was always so disinclined to show his softer side, it was nice to see him be more open about it. “You like her”.

 

Basil glanced at me sideways, but didn’t deny it. “She has a certain moxie I find admirable”.

 

That was the closest to an admission as I was going to get, so I accepted it and went back to reading the newspaper. The main headline was another article about Campbell and when his trial was going to be scheduled. Pine, who knew the value of being discreet, hadn’t given much information to the press, including information on Miss Fletcher. We collectively decided that unless Campbell revealed her identity, or if the press somehow put the pieces together, the world didn’t need to know who The Black Arrow really was. Not until Campbell’s trial, that is, when Miss Fletcher would most likely be called as a witness. But for now, her secret was safe with us.

 

I was several pages into the morning paper, skimming the headlines to find something worth reading, when I noticed something very interesting:

 

**_Local Shoemaker Reunited With Missing Daughter_ **

 

I didn’t even need to read the article to know it was about Mr. Crispin and his family. I showed the paper to Basil, who grinned at and said, “So that’s what her last errand was”.

 

There was a knock on the door, and Mrs. Judson trotted off to answer it. There were some muffled voices on the other side of the kitchen door. Basil and I glanced at each other curiously. The front door closed, and Mrs. Judson’s footsteps became louder as she came back to the kitchen.

 

“There’s someone here to see you,” she said when she opened the kitchen door and poked her head in.

 

I suppose, thinking back on it now, it really wasn’t a surprise to see Miss Fletcher standing in our sitting room. At the time, however, I have to say I wasn’t expecting to see her again.

 

“Miss Fletcher, you came back!” I said happily. She looked well, though she still moved around like her rib was still bothering her, but it seemed like the worst of her predicament was now behind her.

 

“I did say I would,” she said, looking amused at my reaction.

 

“You did! Why don’t you sit and tell us everything you’ve been up to since you left,” said Basil, offering Miss Fletcher a seat in his red armchair. “I’ll have Mrs. Judson make some tea for us”.

 

So Miss Fletcher filled us in on her activities. She said she wanted to find Mr. Crispin’s daughter, and had tracked Percy Whitmore’s drug mules to a safehouse, but Margaret Crispin was nowhere to be found.  After asking around, she found Miss Crispin at the home of a friend she’d made while in Whitmore’s employ. At first, Miss Crispin didn’t want to come home, insisting that her parents would be too disappointed in her to want her back, but Miss Fletcher made her see reason. With reassurance from the friend that she was always welcome should things go poorly, Miss Crispin returned to her family.

 

“It was beautiful,” Miss Fletcher said. “Lots of laughing and hugging and happy tears. It felt good to bring them back together”.

 

“I’m sure Mr. Crispin was immensely grateful that you found his daughter,” I said.

 

Miss Fletcher chuckled, “That’s a bit of an understatement, but yes”.

 

Basil cleared his throat and gave me a very pointed look. This was a perfect opportunity to bring up our proposition. “Speaking of returning home to one’s family, certainly you’ll be doing the same soon?” asked Basil.

 

Her smile fell and the happy light in her eyes dimmed, “Well, actually, I can’t,” she said, her eyes dropping to the floor.

 

Basil looked far too pleased at this, but his back was to her as he paced around the room, and she couldn’t see his grin. “Oh? Why not?”

 

“I’m out of money. I’ve gone through everything that was left to me by Brody. I have no way to pay for boat fare back to Baltimore”.

 

“That’s such a shame! What will you do now, then?”

 

Sighing, Miss Fletcher answered, “I haven’t really thought about it, to be honest. If I can be frank, I truly thought that my vendetta against Dougal would result in either my death or imprisonment. I never considered a third option where neither of those things happened. I don’t know what to do with myself now. I might be able to do odd jobs for people around the city, if they’ll allow me”.

 

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Basil. “But where will you stay?”

 

“I think I could go back to the printery. I’m sure the police won’t bother me there now”.

 

“It is a good option,” Basil agreed. He stopped his pacing next to my armchair where I sat. “Or you could stay here and assist us with our cases until you get back on your feet”.

 

Her eyes shot up to Basil, “What?”

 

“It won’t be easy. You know well enough that crime never takes a holiday, and we do not rest until those who commit it are brought to justice”.

 

Mouth hanging open, Miss Fletcher’s gaze flitted from Basil to me and back. It was like she didn’t dare believe that she heard him correctly. “Are you being serious?”

 

“I never joke about justice”.

 

“You’re offering me a job?”

 

“We do have some conditions though,” said Basil seriously. “Firstly, no fighting. You’re allowed to defend yourself and others if the need arises, but no instigating. Second, no crude language or behavior. You are to conduct yourself with respectability at all times. And third, I want to know how you knew to take your father’s letter to us”.

 

I gave Basil a curious look, as he had not mentioned the petty theft to me. Miss Fletcher tilted her head at Basil before reaching into an inner coat pocket and pulling out an envelope.

 

“Doctor Dawson mentioned my jujitsu training. It’s something I never mentioned to anyone during my time here. The only people who know about it are my parents and the man who taught it to me. It didn’t make sense for you to make contact with my former teacher. The logical conclusion was that you had corresponded with my parents. You also didn’t make an effort to hide it, or my necklace,” she reached inside her shirt and pulled out the silver chain around her neck, freshly polished, and then tucked it back inside. “Is that it?” she asked.

 

“One more thing. You will respect Mrs. Judson’s rules about living in this house. The people of London may not know you’re a woman, but she does, and she has some thoughts on the matter”.

 

“All right, that seems reasonable--”.

 

“Hold on, Miss Fletcher,” I cut in, getting to my feet. “I have my own requirement I’d like you to promise me you’ll do before you agree to our offer”.

 

She gestured for me to continue.

 

“I want you to write a letter to your parents. They haven’t heard from you in so long, and I think you owe them an explanation as to why”.

 

Miss Fletcher sat still, stunned into silence at what was being offered to her.

 

After giving her a few moments to think it over, Basil took the few steps to stand in front of her. He extended his right hand out to her, “Well, Miss Fletcher, what say you?”

 

Without hesitation, she took his hand in hers and gave it a firm shake, “Done. When do I start?”

 

Basil smiled. “Immediately”.

 

Miss Fletcher smiled back. It was a real, genuine smile, so much different than the other ones I’d seen on her face. “Thank you. You two have done so much for me. I would never have stopped Dougal without you. I want you to know that, averse as I was to your involvement, I do deeply appreciate it”.

 

“Oh, we hardly did anything,” dismissed Basil with a wave of his hand. “You were doing quite well on your own under the circumstances”.

 

She gave an acquiescent shrug, “Perhaps, but I did better with you two. I just hope I can repay the favor someday”.

 

“My dear, this wasn’t done as a favor to be repaid,” I said.

 

She smiled gently at me. “I know,” she said, and shifted her gaze to Basil with that same soft look in her eyes.

 

My friend chuckled bashfully, running a hand through his fur as he began to pace around the room, “Now, Miss Fletcher, you’ll take the spare room, the one you stayed in last time. You’ll have to speak with Mrs. Judson about her expectations from--”

 

“Artemis,” said Miss Fletcher.

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“I want you to call me Artemis. Please”.

 

Basil waved a hand. “Very well, Artemis. Basil will do just fine for me, if you please”.

 

Smirking a little, Miss Fletcher said, “Whatever you say, Basil”.

 

And that is how The Black Arrow, or one Artemis Fletcher became part of our crime fighting team. Over the years, the three of us became quite close, Basil and Miss Fletcher especially, and we had many adventures and solved many cases together as colleagues and friends.

 

But those stories are best saved for another day.


End file.
